Classic Poem

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 mocked the sense of pain
Out of a grieved soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber up on knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways,
Then life and all shall cease.