The Unknown She is the most fair and when they see her pass The poets ladies look no more in the glass but after her. On a bleak moor running under the moon she lures a poet, Once proud or happy soon far from his door. Beside a train because they saw her go or failed to see her travellers and watches know another pain. The simple lack of her is more to me than others prescence, whether life splendid be or utter black. I have not seen I have no news of her I can tell only she is not here but there She might have been She is to be kissed only perhaps by me She maybe seeking me and no other' she may not exist. Edward Thomas.