Lucy

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She dwelt among the untrodden ways
  Beside the springs of Dove,
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