Parental Recollections

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.