<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117266" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Fragment</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When she is forward, querulous, or wild,<br> Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence<br>I stint not patience lest I wrong the child,<br> Mistaking for revolt defect of sense—<br>For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind;<br>Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> • • • • • • • •</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And how, when twice, for something grievous done,<br> I could but smite, and though I lightly smote,<br> I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat;<br> And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands.<br> All these things, Father, a father understands;<br>And am I not Thy son?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> • • • • • • • •</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest<br>My child’s head nestles to my breast;<br> And how my arm her little form enfolds,<br>Lest in the darkness she should feel alone;<br> And how she holds<br>My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> • • • • • • • •</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A little easeful sighing<br> And restful turning round,<br> And I, too, on Thy love relying,<br> Shall slumber sound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Guy+Wetmore+Carryl">Guy Wetmore Carryl</a> from <i>The Garden of Years and Other Poems</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117266" data-title="A Fragment de Guy Wetmore Carryl" data-description="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..."></div> </div> </div>

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