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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