W. V.

Cries “ Dearest father! ”’ and in all her glee
For one brief live-long hour remembers me.
Shall I in anger punish or reprove?

Nay, this is natural ; she cannot guess

How one forgotten feels forgetfulness ;

And I am glad thinking of her glad face,
And send her little tokens of my love.

And Thou — wouldst Thou be wroth in such
a caseP

And crying Abba, I am fain
To think no human father’s heart
Can be so tender as Thou art,
So quick to feel our love, to feel our
pain.

When she is froward, 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 spriteliness of mind ;

Thou know’st how often, seeing, I am blind;

How when I turn her face against the wall
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