Poem June 1, 1946 Issue

Playthings

MARION SUSAN CAMPBELL

I've seen a mother, bending, kiss her son,
Taking from him,
Lest they should cause distress,
A piece of glass, a colored bead, a stone;
His tightening fingers curve like a shell
Around those joys until,
Drawn by the love within his mother's eyes,
He suddenly
Drops all his dangerous toys
And lifts both hands to touch his mother's face.
So we, like children, cling
To pride that cuts us
And the applause of men,
Not knowing then how sweet is heaven,
Until, learning to love,
Self shifts a little, and we see Thy face.
Father, we did not know;
Else had we left
Our battered playthings long ago!