A Child Poem by Mary Lamb
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 grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 3:30:19 AM # 1.0.0.1119
