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； 10    But she is in her grave， and， oh，    The difference to me！