English poem
A Fragment
by Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873–1904)
When she is forward, querulous, or wild, Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence I stint not patience lest I wrong the child, Mistaking for revolt defect of sense— For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind; Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.
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And how, when twice, for something grievous done, I could but smite, and though I lightly smote, I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat; And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands. All these things, Father, a father understands; And am I not Thy son?
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Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest My child’s head nestles to my breast; And how my arm her little form enfolds, Lest in the darkness she should feel alone; And how she holds My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!
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A little easeful sighing And restful turning round, And I, too, on Thy love relying, Shall slumber sound.