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.