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.