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!
Return to the William Wordsworth library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Force of Prayer