William Wordsworth

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!