TO
A
CHILD
.
WHOSE
imp
art
thou
,
with
dimpled
cheek
,
And
curly
pate
,
and
merry
eye
,
And
arm
and
shoulder
round
and
sleek
,
And
soft
and
fair
?
—
thou
urchin
sly
!
What
boots
it
who
with
sweet
caresses
First
called
thee
his
,
—
or
squire
or
hind
?
Since
thou
in
every
wight
that
passes
,
Dost
now
a
friendly
play-mate
find
.
Thy
downcast
glances
,
grave
,
but
cunning
,
As
fringed
eye-lids
rise
and
fall
;
Thy
shyness
,
swiftly
from
me
running
,
Is
infantine
coquetry
all
.
But
far
a-field
thou
hast
not
flown
;
With
mocks
and
threats
,
half
lisped
,
half
spoken
,
I
feel
thee
pulling
at
my
gown
,
Of
right
good
will
thy
simple
token
.
And
thou
must
laugh
and
wrestle
too
,
A
mimick
warfare
with
me
waging
;
To
make
,
as
wily
lovers
do
,
Thy
after
kindness
more
engaging
.
The
wilding
rose
,
sweet
as
thyself
,
And
new-cropt
daisies
are
thy
treasure
:
I'd
gladly
part
with
worldly
pelf
To
taste
again
thy
youthful
pleasure
.
But
yet
,
for
all
thy
merry
look
,
Thy
frisks
and
wiles
,
the
time
is
coming
When
thou
shalt
sit
in
cheerless
nook
,
The
weary
spell
or
horn-book
thumbing
.
Well
;
let
it
be
!
—
through
weal
and
woe
,
Thou
knowest
not
now
thy
future
range
;
Life
is
a
motley
,
shifting
show
,
And
thou
a
thing
of
hope
and
change
.