Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the water of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.

* * * * *

POEMS BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

TO A BUTTERFLY

I’ve watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless!—­not frozen seas
More motionless!—­and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers: 
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary! 
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough! 
We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

THE RAINBOW

My heart leaps up when I behold
  A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
  Or let me die! 
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

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.”