To My Father Poem by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward
To My Father
Tired with the little follies of the day,
A child crept, sobbing, to your arms to say
Her evening prayer; and if by God or you
Forgiven and loved, she never asked or knew.
With life's mistake and care too early old,
And spent with sorrow upon sorrow told,
She finds the father's heart the surest rest;
The earliest love shall be the last and best.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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9/24/2024 8:24:09 AM # 1.0.0.1119
