“CRYING ABBA, FATHER”

BBA, in Thine eternal years
Bethink Thee of our fleeting day ;
We are but clay ;
Bear with our foolish joys, our foolish tears,
And all the wilfulness with which we

pray !

I have a little maid who, when she leaves
Her father and her father’s threshold, grieves,
But being gone, and life all holiday,

Forgets my love and me straightway ;

Yet, when I write,

Kisses my letters, dancing with delight,

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