To throw my work about.
He clutches the curtains and whisks them down,
Then pulls at the picture cords,
Tosses my hair in the way of his own,
Nor heeds my coaxing words.
I wonder if one so glad and young
Will ever be prim and old?
He answers not, for he has no tongue—
Yet tells sweet tales as are told.
He climbs the walls, yet has no feet;