She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the spring of Dove
A Maiden 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!