Classic Poem

Sweet , magically clear arose the music,
As softly perfect as a summer dawn.
Change but a note, touch but one tone discordant,
The harmony is gone.

A few full chords, Life's harmony of pleasure
A joyous melody, a festive dance,
And then, because we know not how to play it,
A jarring dissonance.

The ear will grow with hearing, in the future
With deeper knowledge than the earth affords,
We may discern some grandly planned sonata,
In those blurred, ill-played chords.

Could we but know our lesson, have more patience,
To play, just as the Master wrote the scroll,
No note would seem misplaced, but all, in concord,
Blend to a perfect whole.

And when the last clear chord to silence trembles,
And ends the piece so falteringly begun,
We need no praise but that of our great Teacher
Who says to us: " Well done. "