Tag: William Wordsworth

  • We Are Seven

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, July 10, 1914. By William Wordsworth.

    A simple child,
        That lightly draws its breath,
    And feels its life in every limb,
        What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage girl;
        She was 8 years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
        That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
        And she was wildly clad;
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair—
        Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little maid,
        How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
        And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
        She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea;

    “Two of us in the churchyard lie,
        My sister and my brother;
    And, in the churchyard cottage, I
        Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
        And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
        Sweet maid, how may this be?”

    Then did the little maid reply,
        “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the churchyard lie
        Beneath the churchyard tree.”

    “You run about, my little maid;
        Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the churchyard laid
        Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
        The little maid replied;
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door
        And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
        My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit
        And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sunset, sir,
        When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
        And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was Sister Jane;
        In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her pain,
        And then she went away.

    “So in the churchyard she was laid;
        And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
        My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
        And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
        And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
        “If they two are in Heaven?”
    Quick was the little maid’s reply:
        “O Master! We are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
        Their spirits are in Heaven?”
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little maid would have her will,
        And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

  • She Was a Phantom of Delight

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 22, 1913. By William Wordsworth.

    She was a phantom of delight
    When first she gleamed upon my sight;
    A lovely apparition sent
    To be a moment’s ornament;
    Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
    Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair;
    But all things else about her drawn
    From May time and the cheerful dawn,
    A dancing shape, an image gay,
    To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

    I saw her upon nearer view,
    A spirit, yet a woman too!
    Her household motions light and free,
    And steps of virgin liberty;
    A countenance in which did meet
    Sweet records, promises as sweet;
    A creature not too bright or good
    For human nature’s daily food;
    For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
    Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

    And now I see with eye serene
    The very pulse of the machine;
    A being breathing thoughtful breath
    A traveler between life and death;
    The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
    A perfect woman, nobly planned
    To warn, to comfort, and command;
    And yet a spirit still and bright
    With something of angelic light.