Lucy Gray (or, Solitude)
By William Wordsworth

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,-- The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.
To-night will be a stormy night --You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow.
That, Father! will I gladly do:'T is scarcely afternoon --The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!
At this the Father raised his hook,And snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work; -- and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.
They wept -- and, turning homeward, cried,In Heaven we all shall meet;-- When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they crossed:The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!
-- Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon 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.