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.