Эдит Мирик (Edith Mirick)

Deirdre

She did not trail her grief in the dust
Like a bedraggled scarf
To tangle at the hearts of unwary passers.
Grief sat upon her magnificently, like a crown;
Pearled with the mellowness of past tears.
Crimsoned with the garnet of an old wound,
Sapphired with the blue of tried faith ...
And so diademed, she queened it over sorrow.