A Child

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.

(ò﹏ò)

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