By William Wordsworth

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!