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.