MARY LAMB1764-1847
1764-1847
A child’s a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space—Then tire, and lay it by.But I knew one that to itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock’d the sense of painOut of a grievèd soul.Thou straggler into loving arms,Young climber-up of knees,When I forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease.
A child’s a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space—Then tire, and lay it by.But I knew one that to itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock’d the sense of painOut of a grievèd soul.Thou straggler into loving arms,Young climber-up of knees,When I forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease.
A child’s a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space—Then tire, and lay it by.
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 itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock’d the sense of painOut of a grievèd soul.
But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
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 forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.