GENTLY, beneath her perfect rounded chin,
The instrument is clasped, as mothers hold
Across their hearts a much-loved child, to fold
It from the world of misery and sin.
She draws the bow across the strings to win
To life the tones now soft, now strong and bold,
(But ever breathing some grand truth untold)
That dormant lie within the violin.
O, mystery of music, wondrous art!
The sympathetic violin but steals
The loves and hates that dwell within her heart—
The very hopes, the vague desires she feels—
And at the bow’s quick touch they rise and start
In melody that inmost soul reveals.