NOT a line of her writing have I, <br /> Not a thread of her hair, <br /> No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby <br /> I may picture her there; <br /> And in vain do I urge my unsight <br /> To conceive my lost prize <br /> At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light, <br /> And with laughter her eyes. <br /> <br /> What scenes spread around her last days, <br /> Sad, shining, or dim? <br /> Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways <br /> With an aureate nimb? <br /> Or did life-light decline from her years, <br /> And mischances control <br /> Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears <br /> Disennoble her soul? <br /> <br /> Thus I do but the phantom retain <br /> Of the maiden of yore <br /> As my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brain <br /> It may be the more <br /> That no line of her writing have I, <br /> Nor a thread of her hair, <br /> No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby <br /> I may picture her there.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thought-of-ph-a-at-news-of-her-death/
