Her Praise

Serving as my dead sister’s executor, I receive her mail, and have, since her death and to this day, received regular appeals from the charities to which she contributed. Homeless shelters, abused women’s shelter, numerous food banks. Much as I adored and admired her, I didn’t know about her extraordinary generosity.
it makes me think of these lines from a poem by Yeats, titled the same as this post:

“I will talk no more of books or the long war

But walk by the dry thorn until I have found

Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there

Manage the talk until her name come round.

If there be rags enough he will know her name

And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days

Though she hd young men’s praise and old men’s blame

Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.”