by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

      TRANGE fits of passion have I known:
      And I will dare to tell,
      But in the lover's ear alone,
      What once to me befell.
      When she I loved look'd every day
      Fresh as a rose in June,
      I to her cottage bent my way,
      Beneath an evening moon.
      Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,
      All over the wide lea;
      With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
      Those paths so dear to me.
      And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;
      And, as we climb'd the hill,
      The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
      Came near and nearer still.
      In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
      Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
      And all the while my eyes I kept
      On the descending moon.
      My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
      He raised, and never stopp'd:
      When down behind the cottage roof,
      At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
      What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
      Into a lover's head!
      'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
      'If Lucy should be dead!'
      HE dwelt among the untrodden ways
      Beside the springs of Dove,
      A Maid whom there were none to praise
      And very few to love:
      A violet by a mossy stone
      Half hidden from the eye!
      Fair as a star, when only one
      Is shining in the sky.
      She lived unknown, and few could know
      When Lucy ceased to be;
      But she is in her grave, and oh,
      The difference to me!
      TRAVELL'D among unknown men,
      In lands beyond the sea;
      Nor, England! did I know till then
      What love I bore to thee.
      'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
      Nor will I quit thy shore
      A second time; for still I seem
      To love thee more and more.
      Among the mountains did I feel
      The joy of my desire;
      And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
      Beside an English fire.
      Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd,
      The bowers where Lucy play'd;
      And thine too is the last green field
      That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
      HREE years she grew in sun and shower;
      Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
      On earth was never sown;
      This child I to myself will take;
      She shall be mine, and I will make
      A lady of my own.
      'Myself will to my darling be
      Both law and impulse; and with me
      The girl, in rock and plain,
      In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
      Shall feel an overseeing power
      To kindle or restrain.
      'She shall be sportive as the fawn
      That wild with glee across the lawn
      Or up the mountain springs;
      And hers shall be the breathing balm,
      And hers the silence and the calm
      Of mute insensate things.
      'The floating clouds their state shall lend
      To her; for her the willow bend;
      Nor shall she fail to see
      Even in the motions of the storm
      Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
      By silent sympathy.
      'The stars of midnight shall be dear
      To her; and she shall lean her ear
      In many a secret place
      Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
      And beauty born of murmuring sound
      Shall pass into her face.
      'And vital feelings of delight
      Shall rear her form to stately height,
      Her virgin bosom swell;
      Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
      While she and I together live
      Here in this happy dell.'
      Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --
      How soon my Lucy's race was run!
      She died, and left to me
      This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
      The memory of what has been,
      And never more will be.
      SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
      I had no human fears:
      She seem'd a thing that could not feel
      The touch of earthly years.
      No motion has she now, no force;
      She neither hears nor sees;
      Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,
      With rocks, and stones, and trees.




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