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 the
eternal blemish. The man in the mirror grimaced as I attempted to
smile. They say a picture tells a thousand words. If that's true, then
my picture tells a story of loss, devastation and constant sadness.
That attempt at a smile says more than I could ever by speech.
I glanced briefly at the clock - 10:45am. Perfect. Pausing to collect
my carefully written letter and envelope, I stepped into the new day.
Following an unconscious routine, I stopped to check the door behind
me before following the well-trod path to the road. My feet knew the
stretch of road to my destination intimately. They followed their own
routine, guiding me gently to the post office. My mind followed its
own recognised pattern of thoughts. Being Tuesday, I suspected, if not
knew, that I had a letter waiting for me from my mother. The precisely
printed envelope I carried bore her address. Spontaneity was not
something my mother had ever enjoyed or encouraged. She was a very
structured woman and she always appreciated a structured letter from
her only son every Wednesday, preferably with a postmark of the day
My thoughts dwindled, and I focused on my surroundings....