Sonnet 330

What of your epitaph now yet unsung
That I shall carve here on the slates of time,
To mark your precious worth in words among
The treasured best that hands have etched in rhyme;
If hope lives so, your memory ever stands
Although the carver shall to shadows fade,
Your grace to linger in the minds of men;
Immortal virtue so survives the grave.
If but my humble hand could play this part
And in proud verse your story here be told,
By grace of God and pen I would impart
A song that shall be sung in ages old.
This paper stone I smite for all to read
And bless by time your beauty, brace and breed.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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