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 Grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!