  GENTLY, beneath her perfect rounded chin, The instrument is clasped, as mothers hold Across their hearts a much-loved child, to fold It from the world of misery and sin. She draws the bow across the strings to win To life the tones now soft, now strong and bold, (But ever breathing some grand truth untold) That dormant lie within the violin. O, mystery of music, wondrous art! The sympathetic violin but steals The loves and hates that dwell within her heart— The very hopes, the vague desires she feels— And at the bow’s quick touch they rise and start In melody that inmost soul reveals. |
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