She stands, I fear, poor thing, now, for something younger than she looks.
No economy ever stands still.
She stands an instant in the sun Athwart her harsh land's red and green Hands of a serf, and warrior eyes Of some flame-sceptred Irish queen. As if she does not care that life Has reft the jewels from her hair But grieves that menial needs and base Were those that left her palace bare.
For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.