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； 10
     But she is in her grave， and， oh，
     The difference to me！