I read the following poem for my mom at her funeral:

For her old friends:

                                         She walks in beauty like the night

                                          Of cloudless climes and starry skies

                                          And all that's best of dark and bright

                                           Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

And for me I read:

                                  She dwelt among untrodden ways

                                   Beside the Springs of Dove,

                                    A maid whom there were none to praise

                                  And very few to love.

                                  A violet by a mossy stone

                                  Half hidden from the eye,

                                 Fair as a star when only one

                                 Is shining in the sky.

                                 She lived unknown and few could know

                                  When (mom)  ceased to be,

                                 But she is in her Grave,

                                 And Oh! the difference to me

To my mom, your Irish lass,

Athena