She, of flowing strawberry hair, wearing moonlight magnolia blossoms, our honeysuckle vines summer days, we would walk hand in hand by where the cows grazed, her, of a spirit, of sweetest grace, porcelain purity of her face, eyes of forest green flecked with fireflies, in them the moon would rise, my dear God, don't veil memories that lovingly occur, let my youth of olden live in the rhapsody of her, in blessed dreams she still shyly sings, Blue Ridge mountains echo of my mourning devotion to Claire, and I seem to sense she's still there.