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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!