For all these words fly out like sparks,
And through you descend and meet into the admiring form,
And give the curious reader the beauty I see ,
For was there ever a lady so Idolised born.
The winding verses from years gone-by,
Onto future days they will venerate and run,
I do write of you it seems in tribute still,
For a disciples paean is never done.
And in our Autumn years of rest ahead,
Say; ‘He Loved me with devotion so dear,
So quiet he was in his placid self,
But his Heart was Impassioned and most violently sincere’.