Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/106

54 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 cluster'd 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.