The flowers in baby’s garden, “Planted” four days ago, Grow every hour a sadder sight, Weaker and sicklier, in spite Of sprinkling can and hoe.
When I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vain To get what I sought, in the Christmas rush; When they stood on my toes in the crowded train, Or dented my ribs in the sidewalk crush, I dropped my manners and snarled and swore, And thought: “It’s a bothersome, beastly bore!”
But when, at the Christmas dawn, they brought My kid to the room where his things were piled, And when, from my vantage point, I caught The look on his face, I murmured: “Child, Your dad was a fool when he snarled and swore, And called it a bothersome, beastly bore.”