Strange fits of passion have I
known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover’s ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed 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 climbed 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 moverd on; hoof after
hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts
will slide
Into a Lover’s head!
“O mercy!” to myself I cried,
“If Lucy should be dead!”
William Wordsworth
