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 maybe 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.

March 1890.

Sketch of woman cover in sheet lying on couch