WE ARE SEVEN.
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
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 eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd 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 church−yard lie,
My sister and my brother,
And in the church−yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”
Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church−yard lie,
Beneath the church−yard tree.”
“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church−yard 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—
I sit and sing 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 little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.”
“So in the church−yard she was laid,
And all the summer 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?”
The little Maiden did 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!”
ANECDOTE for FATHERS
Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.
I have a boy of five years old,
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
Our quiet house all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
My pleasant home, when Spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
To think, and think, and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him
In very idleness.
The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm;
“Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm.”
“My little boy, which like you more,”
I said and took him by the arm—
“Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”
“And tell me, had you rather be,”
I said and held−him by the arm,
“At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, “At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.”
“Now, little Edward, say why so;
My little Edward, tell me why;"
“I cannot tell, I do not know.”
“Why this is strange,” said I.
“For, here are woods and green hills warm:
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,
For Kilve by the green sea.”
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, Edward, tell me, why?”
His head he raised—there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain—
Upon the house−top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And thus to me he made reply;
“At Kilve there was no weather−cock,
And that's the reason why.”
Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
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 eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd 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 church−yard lie,
My sister and my brother,
And in the church−yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”
Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church−yard lie,
Beneath the church−yard tree.”
“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church−yard 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—
I sit and sing 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 little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.”
“So in the church−yard she was laid,
And all the summer 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?”
The little Maiden did 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!”
ANECDOTE for FATHERS
Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.
I have a boy of five years old,
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
Our quiet house all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
My pleasant home, when Spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
To think, and think, and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him
In very idleness.
The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm;
“Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm.”
“My little boy, which like you more,”
I said and took him by the arm—
“Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”
“And tell me, had you rather be,”
I said and held−him by the arm,
“At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, “At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.”
“Now, little Edward, say why so;
My little Edward, tell me why;"
“I cannot tell, I do not know.”
“Why this is strange,” said I.
“For, here are woods and green hills warm:
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,
For Kilve by the green sea.”
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, Edward, tell me, why?”
His head he raised—there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain—
Upon the house−top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And thus to me he made reply;
“At Kilve there was no weather−cock,
And that's the reason why.”
Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
Poetry: William Wordsworth - We are Seven - Anecdote for Fathers - Links
Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook
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My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.
Thanks :)
Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.
Gracias :)
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