Every night she runs to me <br />With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee, <br />A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow, <br />And in sorrowful tones she tells me how <br />She fell and 'hurted herse'f to-day' <br />While she was having the 'bestest play.' <br /> <br />And I take her up in my arms and kiss <br />The new little wounds and whisper this: <br />'Oh, you must be careful, my little one, <br />You mustn't get hurt while your daddy's gone, <br />For every cut with its ache and smart <br />Leaves another bruise on your daddy's heart.' <br /> <br />Every night I must stoop to see <br />The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee; <br />The little hurts that have marred her play, <br />And brought the tears on a happy day; <br />For the path of childhood is oft beset <br />With care and trouble and things that fret. <br /> <br />Oh, little girl, when you older grow, <br />Far greater hurts than these you'll know; <br />Greater bruises will bring your tears, <br />Around the bend of the lane of years, <br />But come to your daddy with them at night <br />And he'll do his best to make all things right.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-hurts/
