You died, but it was not your words that faltered.
You’d husbanded the language all your life,
And when at last your friends and students met
To share a few brief speeches, nothing had altered.
A constant wife
Turned constant widow, English loved you yet.
You used to tell us, when an essay missed
Your mark, that we
Would fail more frequently than language would—
Still, just today some New York columnist
Was fretting at the inability
Of words to make his feelings understood.
An idiot. I read his grievance through
Once more with pen in hand, just for the fun
Of citing every petulant detail
Over the phone sarcastically to you.
I’d just begun
To dial when I remembered. Words did not fail.
—Matthew Buckley Smith
