Her home of books as prized as gold
where intellect held might
and, whence her flair at eight years old,
with artistry took flight.
The more she read, her senses grew,
compassion quickly shown.
She wrote the world will laugh with you
but weep - you weep alone.
Her mind would ache with grief and woe
absorbing other's plight,
a heartache that would leave her low
inspired her gift to write.
When Robert's death invoked such pains
of grief that were intense,
she sought a path of higher planes
to give her loss more sense.
And once instilled, she found resolve
that death assumed no fear
and soulful rebirths could evolve,
her spirits rose with cheer.
She wrote that sorrow had its place
despite "the heart's unrest,"
that life should give it equal space:
"Whatever is-is best."
For, as in "Winds of Fate," the sails
would keep the ship on course;
the soul, if set, would steer life's ails,
bring calm back to its source.
She versed her art with clarity,
with faith and brightness writ,
in works of deep sincerity
great passion she'd transmit.
Her poetry would seek to raise
those joys we should applaud.
She'd stir our hearts in nature's praise
and stray from things more flawed.
And 'neath it all her blithest verse
was wrought in days of gloom,
when sadness couldn't get much worse,
her muse would thrive and bloom.
The message she had learned through grief:
if spring grass should grow sweet,
the soul must toil and seek relief
"ere song is born complete."
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