WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a lover's head !

1 O mercy ! ' to myself I cried,

' If Lucy should be dead ! '

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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.

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