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. 

-o0o-