The above being the first line of the verses I intend on talking about, is what drew me to 'Lucy' in the very first place. Wordsworth has always been a poet after my own heart, seeing how he upheld emotion and nature as two of the most awe-inspiring subjects of life. At 11 when i first read The Solitary Reaper as part of my syllabus, it left a little something with me. I still remember the little sigh in my heart when I read the last few lines of the poem,
"I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more"
I once spent a lazy afternoon thinking about how experiences are defined by their very memory. The incident itself passes in a haze and never affects you as much as the memory of it does. So in a way, Living is Remembering. This must suck for patients of amnesia, Alzheimer's and all those other little troubles that make your head feel like a blender with bits and pieces of thought floating about. Really makes you grateful, doesn't it?
So yes, back to Willy(can I call him Willy? No I do NOT want to call him Bill! I don't care if you think I'm perverse.) Yes, Willy was a fine chap who understood this years before I had my great epiphany. Willy also loved chiseled, pretty boys but we won't be getting into that. Willy was a magician with descriptors and a hypnotist with the lovesick. He doesn't intimidate with obvious loftiness nor does he serve "fickle fare". His work has a fluidity that plays a little tune in your head, which will disappear when the night light has been put out and the pages laid to rest. But hold them in your hand once again and your eyes will dance to a tune, I don't know if it's the same as before, I won't ever be able to tell. But then, this is not a game of recognition, nor a quest for the thinker. He poses no challenges, assumes no gravity. Willy is content to be what he is.
Back to Lucy. Lucy is what every man would want and every woman would want to be. Lucy is the quintessential young woman. Fragile, lovely. I shall stop here as no description of mine could match that of Wordsworth. In my mind, Lucy is that little girl in our heads, who awaits twilight not for the end of the day's shift, but for the magic of purple mist and sleeping blaze. Who flies with her exquisite tips brushing the sky, who knows she cannot fall, for in her world she decides. Her spirit soaring, flighty but not callous. Passion and dignity. Freedom and grace.