She dwell 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 met!


– William Wordsworth