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In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
"Oh mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.