Lucy...

This poem by William Wordsworth has been running through my mind for a time so I thought I'd pass it on to you.

There is a subtle mystique about it that makes it cling to the senses and permeate the thoughts.
What could be the motive for this touching story? It would be interesting to contemplate the passion that prompted this poem.

Lucy

She dwelt among 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!

Later...