by W. Wordsworth
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I travelled among unknown men,
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In lands beyond the sea;
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Nor, England did I know till then
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What love I bore to thee.
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'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
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Nor will I quit thy shore
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A second time; for still I seem
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To love thee more and more.
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Among thy mountains did I feel
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The joy of my desire;
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And she I cherished turned her wheel
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Beside an English fire.
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Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
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The bowers where Lucy played;
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And thine too is the last green field
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That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways
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Beside the springs of Dove,
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A Maid whom there were none to praise
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And very few to love:
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A violet by a mossy stone
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Half hidden from the eye
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-Fair as a star, when only one
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Is shining in the sky.
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She lived unknown, and few could know
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When Lucy ceased to be;
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But she is in her grave and, oh,
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The difference to me
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A slumber did my spirit seal;
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I had no human fears;
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She seemed a thing that could not feel
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The touch of earthly years.
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No motion has she now, no force;
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She neither hears nor sees;
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Rolled around in earth's diurnal course,
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With rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Lucy
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| The Divine Comedy |
