Parental Recollections

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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.

© Charles Lamb