What of your epitaph now yet unsung

That I shall scribe here on the slates of time

To mark your precious worth in words among

The treasured best poor hands can etch in rhyme;

If hope bides so, your memory ever stands

Although the writer shall to shadows fade,

Your grace to linger in the minds of men—

Immortal virtue so survives the grave.

If but my wanting hand could play some part

And in proud verse your beauty here uphold,

By God’s benevolence I would impart

A song that shall be sung in ages old.

This cyber stone I smite for all to read

To bless in rhyme your beauty, grace and creed.