Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Poems of Home: I. About ChildrenWe are seven
William Wordsworth (17701850)A
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—
Her beauty made me glad.
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be.”
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five.”
The little maid replied:
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”
“If they are two in heaven?”
Quick was the little maid’s reply!
“O Master! we are seven.”
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven.”