Lucy

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

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!