To Margaret, on Her First Birthday

One year is past, with change and sorrow fraught.
Since first the little Margaret drew her breath.
And yet the fatal names of Sin and Death,
Her sad inheritance, she knoweth not.
That lore, by earth inevitably taught.
In the still world of spirits is untold ;
'Tis not of Death or Sin that angels hold
Sweet converse with the slumb'ring infant's thought.
Merely she is with God, and God with her
And her meek ignorance. Guiltless of demur,
For her is faith a hope ; her innocence
Is holiness : the bright-eyed crowing glee
That makes her leap her grandsires face to see,
Is love unfeign'd and willing reverence.