William Wordsworth.
1770-1850
(i)
STRANGE fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lovers ear alone, What
once to me befell.
When she I loved lookd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath
an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fixd my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew
nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reachd the orchard-plot; And, as we climbd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucys
cot Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Natures 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 stoppd: When down behind the
cottage roof, At once, the bright moon droppd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lovers head! O mercy! to myself I cried, If
Lucy should be dead!
SHE 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!
I TRAVELLD 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 thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherishd turnd her wheel Beside
an English fire.
Thy mornings showd, thy nights conceald, The bowers where Lucy playd; And thine too is
the last green field That Lucys eyes surveyd.
THREE 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.
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