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 grieved soul. 

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