at news of her death <br /> <br />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 />March 1890.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thoughts-of-phena/
