When first I saw Marita, she had a dirty face,
above a pretty summer dress of silken cloth and lace.
At the rowdy age of eight, it was no great surprise.
All could be forgiven, when you saw her laughing eyes.
She had few childhood hours, rejoicing every day,
Years were not all gentle, along Marita's way.
Her Mother died when she was ten. He brother ran away.
Her Father drank in sorrow. Marita learned to pray.
Years passed like autumn leaves.
Spring seemed but an hour.
Yet, sometimes the heart that grieves,
learns a special power.
Marita took the hurts, and mended every doubt,
thought of all the others, and turned it all about.
I've seen the tears flow from her eyes. I've seen the brave young face.
I've seen the Mother in her rise, and watched her grow in grace.
When last I saw Marita, I heard a rush of wings.
Many hearts were gathered, to speak of kindly things.
What I most remember, was a touch of golden rays,
that poured in through the window, and the smile upon her face.
The world is full of platitudes,
and some of them still fit:
"It isn't what Life brings to us,
but what we bring to it."
Sendaverse-free use-compliments of "Future Folk" Music
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