A childs 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 ohat to itself
All seasons could trol;
That would have mock’d the sense of pain
Out of a grievèd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I fet thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.