Here's a poem by a famous poet of the English romanticist period.
William Wordsworth is often thought of as a poet of Nature and indeed he is, but he is also a poet of human nature and human emotion. In this poem, an adult speaks to a child about how many brothers and sisters she has and learns that she still counts those who are dead among members of her family. She continues to stubbornly maintain that position even when the adult points out that, obviously, those who are dead no longer walk among us.
The child is wiser than the adult, I think, because those whom we love are never truly gone as long as we draw breath and remember them. They continue to live through us, as we will continue to live, as long as we are remembered and loved.
William Wordsworth is often thought of as a poet of Nature and indeed he is, but he is also a poet of human nature and human emotion. In this poem, an adult speaks to a child about how many brothers and sisters she has and learns that she still counts those who are dead among members of her family. She continues to stubbornly maintain that position even when the adult points out that, obviously, those who are dead no longer walk among us.
The child is wiser than the adult, I think, because those whom we love are never truly gone as long as we draw breath and remember them. They continue to live through us, as we will continue to live, as long as we are remembered and loved.
We Are Seven
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 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:
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 this may 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 of 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!"
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