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.