Yes, I just returned from a TRULY epic trip to Rome with my parents. And yes, I have a few blog posts up my sleeve about it as well as some pretty great photos. But I have to share something that happened to me this morning. It has to do with this fabulous (if I do say so myself) haircut.
This haircut is what gave me a beautiful poem. This haircut introduced me to something William Wordsworth penned which I had never read. This haircut gave me another little gem to put in my Lucy pocket that I can take out and admire whenever my heart desires.
I recently made a new friend in Facebook world, Heather Torriente. Her husband knew Vic in Los Angeles (I'd met him a few times as well) and she and I connected on Facebook because we are both members of the same FB group. I could tell she was feisty in all the right ways, beautiful, fun, athletic, and just down right likable. She also happens to be a fantastically trained hairdresser but lives in Arizona. When I found out she'd be in Utah cutting hair for a few days, I squeezed into her lunch hour and had this little number done to my cranium.
Peter and Zoë were both with me (read: crawling all over me) and as Heather worked on my hair I tried entertaining them with bits of, "Heather has kids too! Should we find out how old they are?", etc. So the kids talked to Heather for a bit and Peter was excited to learn she also has a son in first grade... as well as 2 younger girls. "But I have an older sister who would be 9. So there are three kids in my family too!", he said so sweetly and matter-of-factly.
That's when Heather started reciting this poem, which I'd never heard (or heard OF). She couldn't remember it all and texted me a link this morning so I could read it in its entirety.
It brought me to tears in my kitchen and I immediately emailed it to Vic. And I can guess, with a high level of certainty, that he cried at his desk at work while reading it too.
WE ARE SEVEN
———A simple Child,
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 clustered 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.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”
“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
“The first that dies was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”