A Fragment

When she is forward, querulous, or wild,Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offenceI 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 restMy 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 holdsMy hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!

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A little easeful sighingAnd restful turning round,And I, too, on Thy love relying,Shall slumber sound.