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!