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.

Form: Elegy

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