Sonnet 417

What could I say to pen your epitaph,
That you of truth and beauty were the same,
That you embraced most everything I lack
And burned in virtue like a hallowed flame?
What ink pays tribute to a living art
That yet a noble hand might strive to pay?
What proof could I in lacking words impart
And so of honored praise your worth convey?
Still yet, who would believe this poet’s hand
Or weighing, know what gave that heart a tongue
That voiced these thoughts that may forever stand,
Here now and for that kingdom yet to come?
It is with love that I enshrine your grace
And in dear lines your many wonders trace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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