A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour;   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.