Suzanne Daleo Less

Suzanne Daleo Less, 75, died on January 5, 2019 at Overlook
Medical Center. She was born on Long Island and grew up in Westfield before moving to Scotch Plains 50 years ago.

Suzanne was a graduate of Westfield High School and National College of Education, now National-Louis University. She earned her Bachelor's degree in Education and Literature and taught elementary education in Berkeley Heights and at Saint Bartholomew in Scotch Plains.

She was passionate about 19th-century English history and literature. She was an avid reader, especially works by Thomas Hardy. Her trip to Southern England in 2006 was a highlight of her life, where she visited with an author and pen pal who became a dear friend. She was a devoted wife and mother and enjoyed decorating her home and cooking.

Suzanne was preceded in death by her parents Frank and Ann Daleo, and her beloved cat Rosy. She is survived by her husband Richard of 53 years, two sons; Paul and Philip and his wife Nancy.

Suzanne's visitation will be from 9:00-11:00AM Friday January 11, 2019, at Gray Funeral Home, 318 E. Broad St., Westfield, where her prayer service will begin at 10:30 AM Friday. Interment will follow in Graceland Memorial Park, Kenilworth. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in her memory to the ASPCA (aspca.org). Please go to: www.grayfuneralhomes.com, to view Suzanne's life tribute.



The Darkling Thrush
BY THOMAS HARDY
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.