Daughter

Her apple blossom cheeks,
And eyes like tortoise shell,
The magic way she speaks,
I’m captive in her spell.

My face is rough and worn,
My voice holds little thrill
And very often scorn,
But yet she loves me still.

Her tiny rosebud hands
Stretch out like flowers in spring,
Of me she naught demands,
But joy is what she brings.

Yet little can I render
Except the breath I give;
And though it’s life I give her,
Its I who’s learnt to live.