
Hilda Conkling was an American poet renowned for her unique approach to poetry, which emerged during her childhood. Born in New York, she was the daughter of Grace Hazard Conkling, a respected poet and academic. Hilda began composing poetry at the tender age of four, creating a remarkable body of work before she turned fourteen. Her poems were never written down by her; instead, they were transcribed by her mother during conversations, capturing the spontaneity and innocence of a child's imagination. This collaborative process allowed Hilda to refine her verses, as she would often correct her mother's transcriptions to ensure they reflected her original intent. Despite her early promise, Hilda Conkling did not continue to write poetry as an adult, which adds an intriguing layer to her legacy. Her childhood works, published in collections such as "Poems by a Little Girl" and "The Little Girl's Book of Poems," showcase a vivid and imaginative perspective that resonates with readers. Conkling's poetry is notable not only for its lyrical quality but also for its exploration of childhood experiences and emotions, making her a significant figure in American poetry. Her unique method of creation and the poignant themes of her work continue to inspire discussions about the nature of artistic expression and the voice of youth in literature.
“About My Dreams" Now the flowers are all folded And the dark is going by. The evening is arising… It is time to rest. When I am sleeping I find my pillow full of dreams. They are all new dreams: No one told them to me Before I came through the cloud. They remember the sky, my little dreams, They have wings, they are quick, they are sweet. Help me tell my dreams To the other children, So that their bread may taste whiter, So that the milk they drink May make them think of meadows In the sky of stars. Help me give bread to the other children So that their dreams may come back: So they will remember what they knew Before they came through the cloud. Let me hold their little hands in the dark, The lonely children, The babies that have no mothers any more. Dear God, let me hold up my silver cup For them to drink, And tell them the sweetness Of my dreams.”
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