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MARY LAMB

1765-1847

525                                                 A Child

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 grievàd soul.

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

 

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