Response to the Poem She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth

Response to the Poem She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth

The poem for me, illustrates a beautiful image of timelessness being

interrupted. Lucy is almost portrayed as immortal; her beauty was so

breath-taking. When she died, or "ceased to be", the author is just

left astounded - "what has happened here?" My main inspiration for my

story was the last paragraph.

The character of Edward is ruled by routine. The war was a

significantly distressing experience for him. He needed a stable

friendship, and in Francesca, that's what he got. When Francesca

"ceased to be" however, he was left feeling shell-shocked. There is no

one else who knew the impact it would have on his life - "The

difference to me!"

"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 grace, and, oh,

The difference to me!

The Unsent Letter

I shifted to fix my shirt cuff, and the reflection moved in

synchronisation. I turned to scrutinise the illustration of my life.

Before me stood a complete picture of my experiences. They were

clearly etched into my face as lines on my forehead, as sunken pockets

of skin underneath my eyes, and as the visible slump of my shoulders.

A scar stretched from the inside of my elbow to my wrist, a constant

and painful reminder of the Great War. I tore my eyes away from...

... middle of paper ...

...ed.

"Why did she…?"

The lady nodded understandingly at my inability to complete sentences.

"She didn't give any reason for leaving. She said she just needed to

leave."

I blinked uncomprehendingly, nodded vaguely and turned abruptly to

leave. My feet took me home, led me to my bedroom where I sat rigidly

at my writing table. Mechanically, I placed the unsent letter to my

mother back on the table it had been composed at that morning.

Francesca, my only constant in an ever-changing life had suddenly

pulled herself out of it. My heart, as it so frequently did when

Francesca was involved, tore at the thought of no one knowing she was

now gone. No one knowing how much she meant to me.

"Oh Francesca," I sighed softly.

No one would know the difference it made, when Francesca just ceased

to be with me.