I have but to close my eyes
And in memory I see
The little things, the Irish things
That are so dear to me;
The shamrocks we used to gather
At dawn on St. Patrick's Day.
The books we used to read by candlelight,
My father's pipe of clay;
And though I've traveled many lands,
Nowhere did I find
Little things to stir the heart
Like those I left behind.
Mary R. Hurley
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