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 .