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 look’d every day    
  Fresh as a rose in June,    
I to her cottage bent my way,    
  Beneath an evening moon.    
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 reach’d 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!    
‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried,    
  ‘If Lucy should be dead!’
Other works by William Wordsworth...