a piercing cry.

Let me but dream of affliction and shame,
Of saints that punish and sinners that cower,
Of troubles by sickness and sword and flame,
And _not_ of an innocent daisy flower!

I am haunted by words--by seven words--
Seven words echoing everywhere;
They are borne on breezes, and sung by birds,
They are written on earth and sea and air.

I think there is nothing else is my own;
I think there is nothing else is alive;
Seven words and I are always alone;
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
Urges, she cannot perceive; but prefers
The simple faith of her own sweet plan,
And the brothers in Heaven still are hers.

The very last day that Harry was here
I read him those verses, and Harry smil'd;
And we held some converse, divinely dear,
Which was all about that dear little child.

Is it for this that I think of it now?
Is it for this he let seven words fall?
O pulses are beating behind my brow,
And I think my heart is not beating at all!
And my brain, it keeps whirling round and round,
Like a sing-song wheel through a ship at night;
And the seven words that constantly sound
Are 'you shall follow me, sweet,' and 'I'll write.'

I wonder if I have been going mad,
In the strange wild world I am living in?
I think that I have--I hop'd that I had--
For I weary with wondering, what is sin?

There's blood on your hand--there's blood on your soul--
O lily-white hand--soul noble and true!
You murder'd him where the blue waters roll,
And he set the seal of his death on you.

I have sat so happily by your side,
I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;
But I think that you died, and I think that I died--
And death is the end of all, and the best.

It was God who created men and time;
And a better than you He could not need;
So if you did it, it was not a crime,
And if 'twas a crime, you did not the deed.

I am fighting with life, with death I strive;
Ready for neither; both crush with their might;
Only those seven