She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Besides
the spirings of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And
very few to love;
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden
from eyes!
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!
William Wordsworth
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