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!