Remember this, my son;
That when you left
I had no hand in parting
You from me,
I had no wish to cause
More misery,
When you, in sleep’s warm arms
Were wrenched from me.

Words are meaningless,
They die still-born,
Cold on the air, they shatter
At the touch
When hearts refuse to listen
Over-much,
To what is said, or meant
Or left to trust.

And though you’re gone, remember
What I’ve said,
That you’re your father’s son,
And always will –
I stand by all my children
Every one,
And you may see me nights,
Stand by you still.

David Lewis Paget