Poem by Thomas Hardy

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.

1. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
2. O I Won’t Lead a Homely Life
3. The Country Wedding
4. The Turnip-Hoer
5. The Aërolite

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