And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven,
“Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”
All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;
“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never
Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was old,
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,
Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk
Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke.
Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,
While bleating of flocks and birds piping made sweeter the land,