Erect and rigid little head
Dawning above the high-backed pew,
With wispy ringlets haloèd
And shell ears that the sun shines through,
I know the solemn saucer eyes,
Which seem with reverence to record
The pompous platitudinous lies
With Which we dare address our Lord;
While yet behind their silent mask
Your spirit's feet unhampered go
Through fairy forests, or you bask
In pathless dreams that children know.
And once when we were bent in prayer
And goodness irked you overmuch,
I saw you toss your thistle hair
And squirm from the parental clutch.
Our anthems, seeking God on high,
Echo and die in the dim arch,
While God is in your wicked eye,
And crumpling up your Sunday starch.
