A mother speaks warmly of her four real children—Kenton, Deborah, Michael, and Rose—describing their bright, distinct charms and how deeply she loves them. Yet every night, she dreams of holding four other children: Peter, Christopher, Faith, and Delight. She aches to know the color of Peter’s hair, the look in Delight’s eyes, because to her they already feel like missing parts of her life. This isn’t discontent; it’s a tender, almost playful longing for children who don’t exist, as if they’re just as vivid and loved as the ones beside her. The mood is wistful and intimate, mixing affection with gentle curiosity. The closing lines lighten the feeling: she tells acquaintances she has four children and hopes for eight, because the rest might prove even lovelier. Beneath the soft humor lies a parent’s limitless imagination of love, reaching toward a future that may never come but feels wonderfully near.
Ambition — Summary
Kenton and Deborah, Michael and Rose, These are fine children as all the world knows ; But into my arms in my dreams every night Come Peter and Christopher, Faith and Delight.
Kenton is tropical, Rose is pure white, Deborah shines like a star in the night; Michael's round eyes are as blue as the sea, And nothing on earth could be dearer to me.
But where is the baby with Faith can compare? What is the colour of Peterkin's hair? Who can make Christopher clear to my sight, Or show me the eyes of my daughter Delight?
When people inquire I always just state: "I have four nice children and hope to have eight. Though the first four are pretty and certain to please, Who knows but the rest may be nicer than these?"