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William Wordsworth - Lucy Gray [or Solitude]
Work rating: High

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross`d the Wild,
I chanc`d to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro` the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do;
`Tis scarcely afternoon—
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon."

At this the Father rais`d his hook
And snapp`d a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse, the powd`ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,
She wander`d up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach`d the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook`d the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood
A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn`d, and cry`d
"In Heaven we all shall meet!"
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy`s feet.

Then downward from the steep hill`s edge
They track`d the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross`d,
The marks were still the same;
They track`d them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.

They follow`d from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.

O`er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
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