Epitaph On A Lady Of Fashion Poem by Jan Struther

She, who would never close an eye
Until the dawn had paled the sky,
Now perforce must longer lie.
She, who wakeful strove to keep
Her laughter, that her thoughts might sleep,
Now must think both long and deep.
She, who could scarce endure to spend
One day alone, must in the end
Have none but solitude for friend.
And she, who winced with wounded pride
When on her tablets she descried
A single hour unoccupied-
To-day (poor soul!) 'tis well she cannot look
And see how blank is her engagement-book. . . .