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!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.