Her days of frantic pace are o'er;
by Peter D. Purbrick
Yet still her bones aren't idle even now.
A beauteous face still lingers dark and deep
Behind the wrinkled skin and furrowed brow.
What gossamered thoughts do dwell within?
What tenderness remains in her dear hands?
What selfless love still pours out unto those
Who chide and berate all her small demands?
She rests awhile, at peace with earth and heaven.
A lady blessed of four score years and seven. Diana Was there more fair in this great domain.
As vows of love made her a future queen.
Unsullied yet by poisoned envious men.
Deceived by treacherous man. The unforeseen
Events which were to come with such great pain
Were hidden with coy and ever radiant smile.
A nation took her to their loving hearts.
She was their queen - if only for a while
This queen enraptured nations far and wide
Whilst courtiers flashed and stabbed their viscous knife.
Content to inflict long and lingering death
The while a future kind betrayed his wife.
And though she erred to extricate the pain
And enemies tried to quench this burning flame.
A spirit strong forever marches on.
And England's halls will echo out the name - DIANA