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Date Posted: 21:32:32 05/17/04 Mon
Author: jim clark london england
Subject: The Toys by Coventry Patmore 1823 - 1896

Coventry Patmore 1823 - 1896 was born in Essex south east England the son of an author Peter George Patmore. A convert to Catholicism in later life he became a member of the the pre-Raphaelite movement he was a contributor to "The Germ" the movements publication.

This touching genteel poem will surely strike a chord with any of us who have ever been thoughtless enough to scold a child or anybody for that matter only to leave us wishing we could undo our words. perhaps this is a plea for us to strive to be more kind, more forgiving and to stop and think before we say something we may later regret for the pain it may cause....particularly as in the context of this poem of a fathers regrets at scolding his child whose mother has to make matters even sadder passed away....

Heres a link to the page where you can listen online to this and many other classic poems set to music...

http://tinyurl.com/ytrem

Regards.

Jim Clark
PS..Dont forget you can if you prefer listen to my sound poems at my Yahoo "sound poetry" web groups (look in "files") heres that link..
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bloozman_uk/
You can listen to this particular poem in my second yahoo "Soundpoemz" sound poetry group heres that link..
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/soundpoemz/

All rights are reserved on this sound recording copyright/patent Jim Clark 2004



The Toys
MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'

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