Lucy

I travelled among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England, did I know 'til then
What love I bore to thee!
'Tis past, that melancholy dream —
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time, for I still 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.
By mornings showed, by nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine, too, is the last green field
That Lucy’s eye 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 alone, 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 round in earth’s diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees.