Her eyes were always smiling The Irish brogue, still there Yet, all the time I knew her I never saw her hair She was so much a part of My naive, tender years I loved her so, and she acknowledged Sometimes, she held me near She taught me how to sing and play The notes, the flats, the sharps I learned to play the violin Then one day, the harp? Her talents in abundance She shared them all with ne I cried the day she went away I cared for her, you see? M. Clary 1962