John Hay (1838–1905)

IN the dim chamber whence but yesterday

Passed my belovèd, 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.