 Share
|
Email
Print
|
Made by Egan, in Dublin ca. 1804–1841
Big golden harps make me think of angels,
But here’s one, only as tall as my knee.
I kneel down to peer at its pedigree
Typed on a card. It doesn’t have pedals
But ivory levers along the column.
The gilt is fading, and the base looks frail.
Is this a lyre? Did Greek poets wail
Iambic verses as they plucked and strummed?
No, Thomas Moore once owned this instrument.
The harp that once through Tara’s halls, I hum
Like my father, who loved old Irish songs.
On a small harp like this you could invent
Your own world, the way a sonnet becomes
A frame of strings we yearn to play along.
Doin' It in the Park: No Gatorade (Excerpt)
The Visual Clichés of Instagram
Synthetic Biology
David H. Freedman on smartphone apps and the perfected self, Mark Bowden on being in the dumb kids' class, James Parker on Glenn Beck, Isaac Chotiner on P. G. Wodehouse, and more
Browse back issues of The Atlantic that have appeared on the Web. From September 1995 to the present, the archive is essentially complete, with the exception of a few articles, the online rights to which are held exclusively by the authors.
See All Back Issues: September 1995
Marvin Kalb Proud to Defend Arnaud De Borchgrave
What the Web Knows About the Canadian Foot-Mailing Suspect
The 11 Days Zuckerberg Spent as One of the 40 Richest Humans
What Critics Get Wrong About Creative Cities
Great Moments in the History of Boondoggles
The Pseudo-Suburbanist's Dilemma
Join the Discussion
After you comment, click Post. If you’re not already logged in you will be asked to log in or register. blog comments powered by Disqus