Thoughts of Phena

At News of her Death

      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.