CLXVII The 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, oh,
     The difference to me!