A triumphant voice denotes
A life leaving this room.
We should not be surprised;
It tells us:
          I once was there where many stories
          filled many shelves.
And now, another memory becomes
Another treasure to mine in days of leisure.
          We join in exultation.

There is less serious work about now.
We step in and out of shadows
Cast by the sun filtering through
Her tree and picture window.
The shadows reach many rooms.

She and I were present  
In many of Shakespeare's tombs.
Together we witnessed Royalty paraded:
Elinore, Lear, Macbeth, The Dane.
Her lineage is confirmed.
Our busy stage is less crowded
With the exit of La Grande Dame,
Elizabeth.

In twilight’s hush, where shadows pray,
For sweet Elinore, lost to day,
The weeping willows bend and sigh,
As silver stars blink in the sky.

The whispering wind calls out her name,
A fleeting touch, a ghostly flame.
Oh, where has dawn’s bright darling fled?
To silent halls, where none have tread?

The roses weep in crimson dew,
Their petals soft—their sorrows true.
The brook, once laughing, hushes near,
As if it waits for her to appear.

Yet still the nightbird sings her song,
A mournful tune, both deep and long.
“Return, return,” the echoes plead,
But twilight holds her—lost, indeed.

So shadows kneel, and prayers rise,
To guide her soul through star-strewn skies.
Oh, sweet Elinore, sleep so bright,
Cradled in the arms of night.