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