My Sight

My Sight

And soft doth lie her swollen body dear,

Within a cask most fit to see, to near.

Each soul doth grieve, doth cheer, doth smile, doth tear.

Her life, her love, hath gone, but still and here.

A loss most deep, most hard must I endure,

Or seek, or find, or know a keep so sure

That all the world could find not me a lure?

For all that is, will be soon naught as were.

But thou pay heed, and now behold off there

A place most high, most strong, most fine and fair.

No depth, nor dark. No place of dire, nor lair.

No night to hide the beauty of her white.

Just one with whom she sits who makes all light.

And this some see, and this shall be, my sight.

On the occasion of my grandmother’s death.