Lost Love

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 O!
The difference to me!
William Wordsworth.