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!

The Is Too Much With Us;
Late and Soon

The is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.