Parental Recollections

Charles Lamb

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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 mocked the sense of pain
Out of a griev√ęd 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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