By Andrea Dietrich and Connie Marcum Wong
I walk the path amid the trees
where footsteps of the past have tread,
where ancient stones of Blarney please,
where lips upon the stone are wed.
My roots run deep with Irish blood
and County Cork's where my folk hail.
There Blarney meets where tourists flood
to kiss the stone below the rail.
Enchanting are the turrets here
bedecked in autumn's vines of red,
the little stream that wanders near,
and steps to where I'm being led.
The Blarney stone at last I see,
so bending backwards now to kiss
the stone, my friend is holding me.
That’s not a mark I want to miss!
I have a thought; I now can say
my mouth has touched where many more
have touched upon this stone of gray.
How many thousands came before?
These ancient walls in ruin stand
With greater hist'ry than most know,
Yet still throngs yield to their command
In visitors that come and go.
Inside the marrow of my bones,
I feel a thrill . Will eloquence
Be mine from having kissed this stone?
I feel the chill of reverence!