By Charles Lamb
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 controul;
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.