by W. WordsworthI travelled among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England did I know till thenWhat love I
bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more a
nd more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.Th
y mornings showed, thy nights concealed,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes s
urveyed.She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to
love:A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye-Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unkn
own, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave and, oh,The difference to meA slumber did my spirit
seal;I had no human fears;She seemed a thing that could not feelThe 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.