The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs 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 for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.

By myself walking, To myself talking.

Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.