Skip to ContentShow MenuPOETRY FOUNDATIONPOEMSPOETSPROSECOLLECTIONSLISTENLEARNVISITPOETRY MAGAZINEABOUT USNewsletterSubscribeGiveSearchThe ToysBY COVENTRY PATMOREMy little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,I struck him, and dismiss'dWith 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 yetFrom 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 beachAnd six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebellsAnd two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray'dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,"I will be sorry for their childishness."More About this PoemMORE POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMOREThe RevelationBY COVENTRY PATMORESee All Poems by this Author Poetry Foundation ChildrenPoetry MagazineCONTACT USNEWSLETTERSPRESSPRIVACY POLICYPOLICIESTERMS OF USEPOETRY MOBILE APP61 West Superior Street,Chicago, IL 60654Hours:Monday-Friday 11am - 4pm© 2021 Poetry FoundationSee a problem on this page?Skip to ContentPOETRY FOUNDATIONPOEMSPOETSPROSECOLLECTIONSLISTENLEARNVISITPOETRY MAGAZINEABOUT USNewsletterSearchSearch by Poem or PoetThe ToysBY COVENTRY PATMOREMy little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,I struck him, and dismiss'dWith 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 yetFrom 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 beachAnd six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebellsAnd two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray'dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,"I will be sorry for their childishness."MORE POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMOREThe RevelationBY COVENTRY PATMORESee All Poems by this Author Poetry Foundation ChildrenPoetry MagazineCONTACT USNEWSLETTERSPRESSPRIVACY POLICYPOLICIESTERMS OF USEPOETRY MOBILE APP61 West Superior Street,Chicago, IL 60654Hours:Monday-Friday 11am - 4pm© 2021 Poetry FoundationSee a problem on this page?​