But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb:… - William Wordsworth

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come