'Love, while you were away there came to me - <br />From whence I cannot tell - <br />A plaintive lady pale and passionless, <br />Who bent her eyes upon me critically, <br />And weighed me with a wearing wistfulness, <br />As if she knew me well.' <br /> <br /> <br />'I saw no lady of that wistful sort <br />As I came riding home. <br />Perhaps she was some dame the Fates constrain <br />By memories sadder than she can support, <br />Or by unhappy vacancy of brain, <br />To leave her roof and roam?' <br /> <br /> <br />'Ah, but she knew me. And before this time <br />I have seen her, lending ear <br />To my light outdoor words, and pondering each, <br />Her frail white finger swayed in pantomime, <br />As if she fain would close with me in speech, <br />And yet would not come near. <br /> <br /> <br />'And once I saw her beckoning with her hand <br />As I came into sight <br />At an upper window. And I at last went out; <br />But when I reached where she had seemed to stand, <br />And wandered up and down and searched about, <br />I found she had vanished quite.' <br /> <br /> <br />Then thought I how my dead Love used to say, <br />With a small smile, when she <br />Was waning wan, that she would hover round <br />And show herself after her passing day <br />To any newer Love I might have found, <br />But show her not to me.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wistful-lady/
