Classic Poem

She is my violin!
As the violinist lays his ear to his instrument
That he may catch the low vibrations of the deeper strings,
So I lay my ear to her breast.
I hear her blood singing and I am shaken with ecstasy;
For am I not the musician?

She is my harp — I play upon her.
I touch her, and she trembles as a harp with the first chord of a revery.
I lay my hands upon her with that divine thrill in my finger-tips,
That reverent nervousness of the fingers,
Which a harpist feels when he reaches for a ravishing chord.
Elusive chord from among the labyrinthine strings.
I am a musician for the first time!
I have found an instrument to play upon!
She is my violin — she is my harp!

A song slept in her blood.
None had found it — and it slept.
Lo! I — even I who am so poor in power,
Who was a pauper in conception of harmony,
I have awakened by chance the slumbering song!
I am lost in the spaciousness of it;
I am only a part of the song which I have awakened mysteriously.

Lo, I, the witless musician!
I have wrought even as Masters of Melody,
Even as Masters of Song!