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!