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!