Literature: We Are Seven

   Good morning dear readers and I hope that the cold isn't bothering you too much. I've got a little bit of time this morning as I sit and have breakfast to write a short entry in the blog. Lately, all that I've been doing is assignments and homework. I'm stuck reading things for one project while I read things for another to take a break from the first. I want to countdown the days until Christmas break but I don't want to at the same time because it shows me how little time I actually have to complete everything. Since my mind is on one mode only (STUDY), this morning's post in inspired by one of the text that I've read.
   One very famous poet that is known worldwide even if not everyone has read him is William Wordsworth. Though he might be famous, Wordsworth was never one of my favorite poets. I tend to like Medieval literature a lot and the occasional 17th century work. However, I had to read the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth and I fell into a deep reflection. It is a relatively short poem compared to some of his other works, but to me, it makes more of an impact. Short and sweet could be used here, but there a sense of irony in the poem. It portrays the ideas that many people today struggle with, and it is given in two different perspectives. I like to think of myself as the child in the poem rather than the adult. For once, youth is bliss. It's not a ignorance that the child continues to argue, but a lack to acknowledge a loss. It's a positive perspective.
   I invite you now to read the poem my dearest readers and to let me know what you think. Is the adult in the right, or in the wrong. Perhaps both child and adult are confused. Just know that any situation can be rectified depending on your take on it. It's how you see things rather than how they are supposed to be seen.

We Are Seven

 

 --------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 eight 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:                                    10
          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.                                    20

          "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 ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
          Sweet Maid, how this may be."

          Then did the little Maid reply,
          "Seven boys and girls are we;                               30
          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.                                  40

          "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,                                     50
          Till God released her of her pain;
          And then she went away.

          "So in the church-yard 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."                                   60

          "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!"


K.P.H.