At the calm matin hour
I see her bend in prayer,
As bends a virgin flower
Kissed by the summer air:
O! meek her downcast eyes!
But the sweet lips wear a smile;
How hard the little angel tries
To be serious all the while!

I tell her 'tis not right
To be half grave, half gay,
Imploring in Heaven's sight
A blessing on the day:
She hears, and looks devout
(Although it gives her pain);
Still, when the ritual's almost out,
She's sure to smile again!

She shocks her maiden aunt,
Who thinks it a disgrace
That — do her best — she can't
Give her a solemn face:
She'll scold, and rate, and fume,
And lecture hour by hour,
Until she makes the very room
Look passionate and sour!

Alack! 'tis all in vain!
Soon as the sermon's done,
My fairy blooms again,
Like a rosebud in the sun;
I cannot damp her mirth,
I will not check her play, —
Is innocent joy so rife on earth
Hers should not have full sway?

I asked her yester-night,
Why, when prayer was made,
Her brow of cordial light
Scarce caught one serious shade.
" Father, " she said, " you love
Better to meet me glad,
And so, I thought, the Christ above
Might grieve to see me sad! "