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 clusterd 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?"

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