My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes <br />And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, <br />Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, <br />I struck him, and dismiss'd <br />With hard words and unkiss'd, <br />—His Mother, who was patient, being dead. <br />Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, <br />I visited his bed, <br />But found him slumbering deep, <br />With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet <br />From his late sobbing wet. <br />And I, with moan, <br />Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; <br />For, on a table drawn beside his head, <br />He had put, within his reach, <br />A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, <br />A piece of glass abraded by the beach, <br />And six or seven shells, <br />A bottle with bluebells, <br />And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, <br />To comfort his sad heart. <br />So when that night I pray'd <br />To God, I wept, and said: <br />Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, <br />Not vexing Thee in death, <br />And Thou rememberest of what toys <br />We made our joys, <br />How weakly understood <br />Thy great commanded good, <br />Then, fatherly not less <br />Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, <br />Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, <br />'I will be sorry for their childishness.'<br /><br />Coventry Patmore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-toys/
