Still, We Remain Seven

An Alternate Perspective Poem based on William Wordsworth’s Poem, “We Are Seven”.

My cottage borders on the yard

Where yew trees stoop and sway;

They guard the stones like aged men

Who watch from day to day.

I love the hush of eventide,

When winds grow soft and low;

For then my John and Jane draw near—

Their voices faintly flow.

A gentle humming fills the air,

A tune they whistled home;

 So light it shivers through the leaves

Where quiet shadows roam.

 I wander there most every day,

The grass my fav’rite gown.

I bring them oat-cakes warm and small,  

And sit upon the mound;

I hum the tune my mother loves,

And hear them all around.

The stillness holds a gentle breath,

A whisper through the air;

And though no earthly voice replies,

I feel their presence there.

✵

One morning, as I tended them

And brushed the leaves away,

A stranger trod the narrow path

And paused as if to say—

“Good day to you, my little maid;

Pray tell me, if you can,

How many brothers, sisters too,

Belong unto your clan?”

I answered straight, as children do—

For counting brings no dread—

 “We are a merry band of seven!”

(Since none of us are fled.)

He blinked at me as if the sun

Had dazzled both his eyes;

 “Seven?” he said. “But how can that

Be true in any wise?”

“For two of these are gone,” he said,

“And two to service roam;

And two lie cold within this ground—

So child, how many be home?”

I smiled at him, for grown-folk speak

As if the world were stone;

They think a thing must breathe and stir

To still be called their own.

“My sister Jane lies quiet here,

And John beside her rests;

Yet still I knit and sing to them—

And feel them in my breast.”

“So still we number seven,” said I,

“For death divides us none;

What matters where our bodies lie

When hearts are joined as one?”

He shook his head, as grown folk do

When puzzled past all sense;

As though his sums would not add up

Without some grave offense.

“Child, child!” he cried, “they are but dead—

You must not count them so!”

But dead or living, love remains;

And surely he should know.

For though his coat was fine and dark,

His boots well-traveled, worn,

He seemed to me a lonely soul—

All tragic and forlorn.

I pitied him his tidy mind,

That kept so strict a gate;

For if he felt the graves as I,

He’d never hesitate.

“We are still seven,” soft I said,

“Whatever you believe;

 For love keeps count more faithfully

Than sums that men conceive.”

✵

He pressed his lips as if the truth

Lay trapped behind his tongue;

And seemed undone that one so small

Could hold her logic young.

“Child, numbers must obey their rule,”

He said with grave concern;

“As night must follow day, you know,

And all to dust return.”

But I had learned a gentler law

Than any sums he taught:

That love may linger where it will,

And death unmake it not.

I pointed to the grassy ridge

Where morning light had spread;

“It is not dark to sit with them,

Nor wicked, cold, or dread.

“For Jane still keeps me company

Whenever skies grow grey;

 And John will rustle at my side

When winds come up to play.”

The stranger sighed and wiped his brow,

As though the air grew thin;

He paced a step, then turned again

Determined to begin—

“But child,” he said, “they hear you not,

Nor answer when you call.”

I laughed, not meaning to be rude,

Yet marveling at it all—

For how could he, a grown-up man,

So sure and stiff in thought,

Imagine speech the only sign

Of presence dearly sought?

“I speak to them,” I gently said,

“And though they speak not back,

I feel them warm the evening air

And follow down the track.”

He glanced upon the churchyard stones

With something like dismay;

As though he feared to tread too near

Lest dreams lead him astray.

“I cannot count what cannot breathe,”

He muttered soft but stern.

 “And I,” said I, “count faithfully

What others fail to learn.”

✵

A moment passed. The sparrows stirred

Beneath the yew-tree’s wing;

The breeze that wandered through the grass

Bore hints of early spring.

The stranger shivered where he stood,

Though sunlight warmed the air;

 He rubbed his hands as if to chase

Some unseen chill from there.

He shook his head, his voice grew sharp,

Yet clouded with a plea:

“Child, cease this fancy! Death is sure,

And life is what must be.”

“But life,” said I, “is wider far

Than breath or pulse or bone;

For love may live where bodies sleep—

And thus, we are not alone.”

At last he sighed, a weary sound,

As though the day were long;

And every surety he held

Had somehow wandered wrong.

He gazed upon the graves once more,

Then turned his look to me;

 But found no argument to give

Against what I could see.

“I cannot teach you otherwise,”

He murmured with a frown;

Then bent his head, and made to leave

Along the dusty town.

I watched him walk the winding path,

His figure growing small;

 And wondered why a man so wise

Should understand so small.

For though his books and sums were grand,

And reason his delight,

 He could not count the simplest truth

That lived before his sight.