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LIKE A CHILD.
Seeking a woman's heart, winning it for his own,
Then, too busy for love, letting it turn to stone:
Sure of his plighted troth, what more had a wife to ask?
Is he not doing for her each day his daily task?
Then, too busy for love, letting it turn to stone:
Sure of his plighted troth, what more had a wife to ask?
Is he not doing for her each day his daily task?
A child, to pine and complain,—a child, to grow so pale,—
For want of some foolish words shall the faith of a woman fail?
Words! he said them once,—what need of any thing more?
Does one who has entered a room go back and wait at the door?
For want of some foolish words shall the faith of a woman fail?
Words! he said them once,—what need of any thing more?
Does one who has entered a room go back and wait at the door?
Baby Mary and Kate never can climb his knee:
Motherly arms are open,—but "Father's busy, you see."
Too busy to stop to hear a babble of broken talk,
To mend the jumping-jack or make the new doll walk.
Motherly arms are open,—but "Father's busy, you see."
Too busy to stop to hear a babble of broken talk,
To mend the jumping-jack or make the new doll walk.
