Classic Poem

Here, six years old, by Destiny's crime
Made a ghost before her time,
Erotion lies. Whoever you be,
Next lord of my small property,
See that the dues of death are paid
Annually to her slender shade:
So may your hearth burn bright and strong,
Your household thrive, yourself live long,
And this small stone, throughout the years,
Remain your only cause for tears.