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347 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published February 25, 2003
"I couldn't fall out of love with you if I fell all the way to hell." Emotion was storming into his eyes ...
The Irish knew all about wars, conflicts, hunger, and poverty. And they dealt with it, sang of it, wrote of it. And drank around it of an evening ...
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
"I was just wishing for you ... and here you are."
"I'm bound for Clare tomorrow."
He rarely thought of his heritage, and had never held the grand and weepy sentiment of Ireland so many did those ancestors had left hose green fields behind. But driving alone now under a sky layered with clouds that turned the light into a gleaming pearls seeing the shadows dance over the endless roll of green and the lush red blooms of wild fuchsia rise taller than a man to form hedgerows, he felt a tug.
"I couldn't find my balance ... until I stood out here in the mist of the morning and saw you."