My defective and selfish brain has gone off on holiday again and left my unstable emotions in charge, which usually means that it will end in tears. Yay! I’ve spent the morning making proper acquaintance with future regrets, and somewhere in that haze of too much vodka over the weekend and a Monday that came much too early, I stumbled into the beauty of William Wordsworth.
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
She dwelt among the 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 unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Those last two lines will be the death of me one of these days. This is one of the Lucy poems that Wordsworth wrote, and my favourite. It all lies in the simplicity of the prose, the fact that we don’t find out that she’s dead until the penultimate line, and how that affected the narrator.