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!

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