Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.
The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have nothing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.
Oh, if instead she'd left to me
The thing she took into the grave! --
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, public domain
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