With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace

She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair

Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face.

She would not have us sad because she is lying there,

And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter-lit,

Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her

Matching our broken-hearted wit against her wit,

Thinking of saints and of Petronius Arbiter.