The Violin Poem by John Leroy Maxwell

With tool and wood the craftsman slave..
Patience within a soul he gave..
To ever last, thru ages long..
So very light, but yet so strong..
At his bench both day and night, with
tool and chisel, he carve just right..
A neck to make and turn the scroll..
The pegs to fit, he drill the hole..
Hard Maple back, and Spruce the top..
The sides he steam and interlock..
A sound post fit and so the bridge,
to fit the contour of the ridge..
A piece of wood he put in place, to
give it depth and also bass..
A varnish stain of abber hue..
A reddish stain to blend in too..
Some Virtuoso maybe play, to
give someone a brighter day..
For music makes the world go 'round..
A greater piece of Art not found..
Four strings he add, and then to pitch..
To test the soul, he gave so rich..
A balanced bow now he must make..
The hair from mane of horses take..
Then to his hand he draw the bow.
Across the strings the Music flow..
A Symphony, a quiet band..
A Melody heard 'round the land..