Book 4 — CCLXXXIII IN MEMORIAM

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