A Child

    A ching for an hour;

    Its pretty tricks ry

    For t or for a longer space—

    tire, and lay it by.

    But I kne to itself

    All seasons could control;

    t would he sense of pain

    Out of a grievèd soul.

    traggler into loving arms,

    Young climber-up of knees,

    thousand ways

    then life and all shall cease.