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SELECT POETRY

“ 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 snew,
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.”

Wordsworth