John Hay (1838-1905)
"In the dim chamber"
In the dim chamber whence but yesterday
Passed my belovéd, filled with awe I stand;
And haunting Loves fluttering on every hand
Whisper her praises who is far away.
A thousand delicate fancies glance and play
On every object which her robes have fanned,
And tenderest thoughts and hopes bloom and expand
In the sweet memory of her beauty's ray.
Ah! Could that glass but hold the faintest trace
Of all the loveliness once mirrored there,
The clustering glory of the shadowy hair
That framed so well the dear young angel-face!
But no, it shows my own face, full of care,
And my heart is her beauty's dwelling-place.
The Book of Sorrow