Little Elfie

    I have a puppet-jointed child,
    She's but three half-years old;
    Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild
    With looks both shy and bold.

    Like little imps, her tiny hands
    Dart out and push and take;
    Chide her--a trembling thing she stands,
    And like two leaves they shake.

    But to her mind a minute gone
    Is like a year ago;
    And when you lift your eyes anon,
    Anon you must say No!

    Sometimes, though not oppressed with care,
    She has her sleepless fits;
    Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair
    The elfish mortal sits;--

    Where, if by chance in mood more grave,
    A hermit she appears
    Propped in the opening of his cave,
    Mummied almost with years;

    Or like an idol set upright
    With folded legs for stem,
    Ready to hear prayers all the night
    And never answer them.

    But where's the idol-hermit thrust?
    Her knees like flail-joints go!
    Alternate kiss, her mother must,
    Now that, now this big toe!

    I turn away from her, and write
    For minutes three or four:
    A tiny spectre, tall and white,
    She's standing by the door!

    Then something comes into my head
    That makes me stop and think:
    She's on the table, the quadruped,
    And dabbling in my ink!

    O Elfie, make no haste to lose
    Thy ignorance of offence!
    Thou hast the best gift I could choose,
    A heavenly confidence.

    'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham,
    To put you in the ark!
    Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb,
    Sleep shining through the dark.