In the Corner
So often, poor wee rogue, they sent
His blithe heart into banishment,
So oft his blurred angelic face
Was wall-ward turned in dire disgrace,
That, moved with pity for his sake,
What does his grand-dad do but take
Palette and brush, and fill with bloom
That penal corner of the room?
Small woodmen share the culprit's grief;
Fairies peep out from flower and leaf;
His heart the droll brown squirrel cheers,
And sets him smiling through his tears.
“Grandpa,” they cried, “you spoil the child!”
More kindly wise the old artist smiled:
“Pain often hardens—have a care!
God does not leave our ‘corners’ bare.”
