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This is a further dedication of my pages, and a very sacred one to me. I'm not going to try to explain. If you understand, you understand. And if you do, Kindred One, I bless you where you are.
To "Saoirse":
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now lies as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high with praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that she still lives.
--Thomas Moore
Moyra's Web Jewels
sidhelady@clandjop.com
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