by W. Wordsworth



I travelled 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 cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.



Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,

The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.



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



A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears;

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.



No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled around in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.