There was an old woman who hadn’t a thing to wear except holes. So she sewed the holes together and she dressed herself with care; but people passed her in the street as though she were not there.
An old woman has nothing to wear but holes, so she does something quietly inventive: she sews the holes together and makes an outfit out of absence. She takes real care over it, dressing herself as though she were going somewhere that mattered. And yet the ending is flat and cruel. People walk past her as if she weren't there at all.
The poem is only a few lines, but it sits on a sharp irony. Her clothes are made of nothing, and so, in the eyes of the street, is she. The title, "Illusions," hints at the gap between how she sees herself, dignified and put together, and how others see her, which is not at all. It's also possible the illusion is partly hers, the belief that effort and care will earn her notice.
The mood is gentle but sad, told in a plain, fairy-tale voice that makes the loneliness hit harder. There's tenderness toward her resourcefulness, and a quiet sting at how easily the world overlooks the poor and the old.