Oft I Had Heard Of Lucy Gray: And, When I Crossed The Wild, I Chanced To See At Break Of Day The Solitary Child. No Mate, No Comrade Lucy Knew; She Dwelt On A Wide Moor, The Sweetest Thing That Ever Grew Beside A Human Door! You Yet May Spy The Fawn At Play, The Hare Upon The Green; But The Sweet Face Of Lucy Gray Will Never More Be Seen. "To-Night Will Be A Stormy Night You To The Town Must Go; And Take A Lantern, Child, To Light Your Mother Through The Snow." "That, Father! Will I Gladly Do: 'Tis Scarcely Afternoon The Minster-Clock Has Just Struck Two, And Yonder Is The Moon!" At This The Father Raised His Hook, And Snapped A Faggot-Band; He Plied His Work; And Lucy Took The Lantern In Her Hand. Not Blither Is The Mountain Roe: With Many A Wanton Stroke Her 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 Night Went Shouting Far And Wide; But There Was Neither Sound Nor Sight To Serve Them For A Guide. At Day-Break On A Hill They Stood That 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 Spied The Print Of Lucy'S Feet. Then Downwards From The Steep Hill'S Edge They 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 Bank Those Footmarks, One By One, Into The Middle Of The Plank; And Further There Were None! Yet Some Maintain That To This Day She Is A Living Child; That You May See Sweet Lucy Gray Upon 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.