A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour;
by Mary Lamb
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space--
Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
That would have mock'd the sense of pain
Out of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.