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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 and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes surveyed.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 unknown, 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.