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.