The Lost Love

William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Besides 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 start, when only one

is shining in the sky

She lived unknown, and few could know

When lucky ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!