The world about me may hunger and strive.
I have heard that mystic meaning is hid,
I have heard that wonderful things are made,
Of the number seven—may God forbid—
For I cannot tell, and I feel afraid.
The sweetest poem that ever was writ—
Do you not know it?—is 'We are seven;'
For the dear little girl who talks in it,
Will not give up her brothers in Heaven.
What the stupid sense of the grown-up man