Over a slum his sign swings out,
Over a street where the city's shout
Is deadened into a sob of pain—
Where even joy has a minor strain.

"Violins made," read the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings;
Over a street where people give
Their right to laugh for a chance to live.

He works alone with his head bent low
And all the sorrow and all the woe,
And all the pride of a banished race,
Stare from the eyes that light his face.

But he never sighs and his slender hand,
Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand—
Fastens it tight, but tenderly
As if he dreams of some melody.

Some melody of his yesterday....
Will it, I wonder, find its way
Out to the world, when fingers creep
Over the strings that lie asleep?

Or will the city's misery
Mould the song in a tragic key—
Making its sweetest, faintest breath
Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

Maker of music—who can know
Where the work of his hand shall go?
Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
Comfort to ease the suffering—

Maybe his dreams will have their part
Buried deep in the music's heart....
Out of a chain of dreary days,
Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out,
Over a street where dread meets doubt—
"Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings.