Little Elfie.

I have an elfish maiden child; She is not two years old; Through windy locks her eyes gleam wild, With glances 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; So when you lift your eyes anon, They're at it, to and fro. Sometimes, though not oppressed with thought, She has her sleepless fits; Then to my room in blanket brought, In round-backed chair she sits; Where, if by chance in graver mood, A hermit she appears, Seated in cave of ancient wood, Grown very still with years. Then suddenly the pope she is, A playful one, I know; For up and down, now that, now this, Her feet like plash-mill go. Why like the pope? She's at it yet, Her knee-joints flail-like go: Unthinking man! it is to let Her mother kiss each toe. But if I turn away and write, Then sudden look around, I almost tremble; tall and white She stands upon the ground. In long night-gown, a tiny ghost, She stands unmoving there; Or if she moves, my wits were lost To meet her on the stair! O Elfie, make no haste to lose Thy lack of conscious sense; Thou hast the best gift I could choose, A God-like confidence.