THE OLD VIOLIN
By Maurice Francis Egan
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,Like some great thought on a forgotten page;The soul of music cannot fade or rust,—The voice within it stronger grows with age;Its strings and bow are only triffling things—A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,Like some great thought on a forgotten page;The soul of music cannot fade or rust,—The voice within it stronger grows with age;Its strings and bow are only triffling things—A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,Like some great thought on a forgotten page;The soul of music cannot fade or rust,—The voice within it stronger grows with age;Its strings and bow are only triffling things—A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust,—
The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only triffling things—
A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.