— 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 ears 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 litle 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 sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I may take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died 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!"
— William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850), 1798
A brilliant statement on the insight that can come from innocence. Wordsworth based this poem on a true encounter with a young country girl.
The tone of today's poetry owes much of itself to the Romantic movement of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Before romanticism, much of poetry was an exercise in pedantry. Verse was typically the work of courting aristocrats and adhered to very difficult standards of meter that served no function except to showcase mastery of the simple aspects of the English language. Typically, poetry was very banal in subject matter — for example, a tremendously ornate soliloquy comparing a maiden to a flower — but with little of the insight and beauty that characterizes good poetry as we know it today. It just sounded impressive when read out loud under an open window.
Like any good Romantic poet, Wordsworth was very concerned with the universe that is created by feeling. After reading this, go read Tintern Abbey and see what he has to say about memory. Read some of William Blake's work (which, sadly, was considered a joke in his time) and ache from the soulfulness of it all. The work of Romantics contrasts with that of earlier poets not only because it is readable, but because it is tremendously soulful — Wordsworth's camp stumbled positively on what it is in language which fits into the tiny gaps and starts of the brain's emotional rhythm, crystallizing a poetic tradition that has carried itself all the way to the present. We read poetry with our instincts and hearts more than with our minds because of people like William Wordsworth.
That said, the ironic tone of We are Seven is established in the first four lines, especially "What should it know of death (Wordsworth 4)"? As the reader progresses, this question is answered subtly, but unmistakably. This child has overseen the sudden burial of two siblings; she knows quite a lot about death.
On instinct, the reader takes Wordsworth's initial portrayal of the young girl to be one of the foolish innocence that we take for granted in children. In conversing further with the child, Wordsworth finds himself in a stalemate with her regarding her deceased siblings. She insists on counting the children in their graves along with those who are still alive, playing with her in the morning sun. Of course, our first impression is that the child is in a state of denial, shrouded by her ignorance of earthly pains. She does not acknowledge death because she cannot understand it.
As the reader progresses, the child's unwavering certitude stands out more and more. The feeling becomes that Wordsworth's repeated attacks on her logic are instead pleas to be allowed into the secret she guards which allows her to be so certain of her position. To this child there is no such thing as death. To be felled by disease and exposure is merely a footnote to the eternal bliss of heaven; existence not only fails to end upon death, but the differences between either state are subtle. The child's spirituality — not religiosity, as you'll notice in her failure to use terminology which is too specifically Christian — is her shield from the pain of loss. This is the logic that Wordsworth questions and cannot circumvent: the simplicity of childhood affection. What appears to be ignorance of death's workings is instead a sublimation of loss into an endless and unshakable love.
By the end of the poem Wordsworth's attitude has not changed. His age and experience have hardened him into a habit of dichotomization — it's either this or that. Death is different and exclusive from life and once one has entered death they have left behind all that made them who they were in life. The two states do not intermingle because they are so fundamentally different. In this way the reader sees that Wordsworth's stance is actually much more rudimentary than that of the girl; it is his simplicity which does not allow him to get his head around the girl's continuing acknowledgement of her dead siblings.
If you're ever disillusioned, find an eight-year-old.
Source
Wordsworth, William. "We Are Seven". English Romantic Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Stanley Appelbaum. Dover: Toronto. 23-25. | 
