So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.
It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven!
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.
The pear trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flashed about;
And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?
I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven!
So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,
And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered,
And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,
While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven.