Mary Lamb (1764–1847)

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 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 ways

Then life and all shall cease.