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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!
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