The Old Violin Poem by Maurice Frances Egan
The Old Violin
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 trifling things—
A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: forgotten,lies,music
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8/28/2026 8:17:28 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
