Old stuff from out of the woodwork

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, 
It’s I who’s learnt to live.