Here is a poem given to me by one of my old friends for my 60th birthday. I am saving it to be read at my funeral. It's by a Newfoundland poet, E.J. Pratt:
The will she made contained no room for strife,
for twisted words concerning gold or lands
For all the wealth she had saved from life
was such as lay within her folded hands.
She would have been less rich with other store
and we the poorer if she had not willed
only her heart, and then gone out the door
Leaving that cupboard on the latch, and filled.