Side 1:
“…for the way with Ireland
is that no sooner do you get
away from her
than the golden mists
begin to close about her,
and she lies,
an Island of the Blest,
something enchanted
in your dreams.
When you come back you may think
you are disillusioned,
but you know well that
the fairy mists will begin
to gather about her once more.”
Katharine Tynan
The Middle Years
Page 159
Side 2:
“Frail the white rose, and frail are
Her hands that gave,
Whose soul is sere, and paler
Than time’s wan wave.
Rose-frail and fair—yet frailest,
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blue-veined child.”
James Joyce
“A Flower Given to my Daughter”
