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.
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