Thomas Hardy

Thought of Ph

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