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LUCY – by: William Wordsworth


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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