Wessex Poems and Other Verses1899at news of her deathNot a line of her writing have INot a thread of her hair,No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, wherebyI may picture her there;And in vain do I urge my unsightTo conceive my lost prizeAt her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with lightAnd 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 waysWith an aureate nimb?Or did life-light decline from her years,And mischances controlHer full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fearsDisennoble her soul?Thus I do but the phantom retainOf the maiden of yoreAs my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brainIt may be the moreThat no line of her writing have I,Nor a thread of her hair,No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, wherebyI may picture her there.
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