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The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about,
And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?
I thought so. Yes, everyone 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 litter'd;
And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd,
While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven.
A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven.
But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,
And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.
Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold!
Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;
And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after
With laughter--with laughter came after.
And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call,
That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.
But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven;
Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.


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