Fourscore
His body, warped and brown and thin,
Is like some quaint old violin,
Played till it bears the lasting trace
Of the dead player's hand and face —
Played to old airs of love and pain
Till it has broken with the strain.
But even yet, when some one brings
A master-touch, the poor, worn strings
Wake, from his heart of bygone years,
A music that is blind with tears.
Is like some quaint old violin,
Played till it bears the lasting trace
Of the dead player's hand and face —
Played to old airs of love and pain
Till it has broken with the strain.
But even yet, when some one brings
A master-touch, the poor, worn strings
Wake, from his heart of bygone years,
A music that is blind with tears.
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