Epitaphs

Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree.
Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills,
The delight of her husband, her aunts, an infant of three,
And of medicos marveling sweetly on her ills.

“Not in vain” may be the pride of those who have survived and the epitaph of those who fell.

Of all cold words of tongue or pen
The worst are these: “I knew him when—”