Her days of frantic pace are o'er;
Yet still her bones aren't idle even now.
A beauteous face still lingers dark and deep
Behind the wrinkled skin and furrowed brow.
What gossamered thoughts do dwell within?
What tenderness remains in her dear hands?
What selfless love still pours out unto those
Who chide and berate all her small demands?
She rests awhile, at peace with earth and heaven.
A lady blessed of four score years and seven. Diana Was there more fair in this great domain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem