Her name was poet’s grief before

Mary, the saddest name

In all the litanies of love

And all the books of fame.

I think of poor John Clare’s beloved

And know the blessed pain

When crusts of death are broken

And tears are blossomed rain.

And why should I lament the wind

Of chance that brought her here

To be an April offering

For sins my heart held dear.

And though her passing was for me

The death of something sweet,

Her name’s in every prayer, her charm

In every face I meet.