Sonnet Lxxxvi. Januarry 19, 1839 Poem by Henry Alford

My fairy girl, amidst her mirthful play,
Suddenly kneeling, clasps her hands in one,
And prays the words she has been taught to pray
Morning and evening; when her prayer is done,
In calm, as though some Mighty One was near,
Who soothed her, but not awed, away she springs,
And runs to me with laughter silver--clear,
Till all our home with her full joyance rings.
Nor am I one who, with displeasure cold,
Such sport would chide; our heavenly Father's face
Each night and day her angel doth behold:
Her soul is filled with his baptismal grace;
Happy, if through her years and cares untold,
Such pure communion could her spirit hold.