I have no memory of his face,
   A bearded man or smooth and bare;
I never heard my mother call
   My father either dark or fair.

All I remember is a coat
   Of velvet, buttoned on his breast;
Where I, when tired of fingering it,
   Would lay my childish head and rest.

His voice was low and seldom heard,
   His body small - I've heard it said;
But his hoarse cough made children think
   Of monsters growling to be fed.

If any children took that road,
   And heard my father coughing near,
They whispered, 'Hist! Away, away-
   There's some big giant lives in there!'