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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420021" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>For Elizabeth</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420021" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">"Beautiful" she said; <br>And none can her gainsay.<br>The poetess who spoke, <br>then, in quiet, passed away.<br>Cossetted within her husband's arms, <br>frail and small in death's repose, <br>Never again would she put pen to paper.<br>No more sonnets would her art compose.<br>Her illnesses had dogged her all her life.<br>Only morphine kept the pain at bay.<br>It also gave to her a heightened sense<br>of the beauty of mundane reality.<br>How vividly did her expressive eyes<br>Put words to thoughts and thoughts to<br>printed page.<br>She was the wild enthusiast of life, <br>whose poetry was the spirit of the age.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+F.+McCullagh">John F. McCullagh</a></strong></div>

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