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!