She dwelt among th' 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 liv'd unknown, and few could know

          When Lucy ceas'd to be;

        But she is in her Grave, and Oh!

          The difference to me.

      A slumber did my spirit seal,

          I had no human fears:

        She seem'd a thing that could not feel

          The touch of earthly years.

        No motion has she now, no force

          She neither hears nor sees

        Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course

          With rocks and stones and trees!

        "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,

        Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,

        Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

        Between me and my choice!"

        A falling Water swoln with snows

        Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,

        That all bespatter'd with his foam,

        And dancing high, and dancing low,

        Was living, as a child might know,

        In an unhappy home.

        "Dost thou presume my course to block?

        Off, off! or, puny Thing!

        I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock

        To which thy fibres cling."

        The Flood was tyrannous and strong;

        The patient Briar suffer'd long,

        Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

        Hoping the danger would be pass'd:

        But seeing no relief, at last

        He venture'd to reply.

        "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!

        Why should we dwell in strife?

        We who in this, our natal spot,

        Once liv'd a happy life!