No I don’t tire of her smile

Her face is new each time I look

Why she is merry- in my book

A rare and unused word- no guile

Straight merriment she offers only

Given that, could I be lonely?

I often remember her image when

I’m down I easily recall

Her, powerful- though she was small-

She lifts me into life again.
And she is dead, supposedly-

She lives for many- especially me

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