A Poet's Epitaph

A poet's epitaph

Poor Poet
The epitaph said,
She had no money
Now she is dead.

Does it really matter,
After all,
How much we had,
How hard we fall?

The only things that matter,
So the poet said
Is how much we love
Before we’re dead.

Can we give and give until all is gone
And still have more to give?

Can we offer words that rhyme,
And still be allowed to stay
In the kingdom of Heaven?
The poet's Epitaph doesn't say.