The Stradivarius
L
ONG centuries ago it stood-a wonder-thing:
A tree, pregnant with the voices of the rains and seas,
Swept with the passion of the wind’s wild melodies,
Bowed with the grief of storms, and stilled to
slumbering,
Drenched with white moon showers, and called
upon to sing
Songs of old loves, old dreams, and deep desires,
Told in the rose of dawn, and sunset’s scarlet fires:
Songs of the rapturous spheres, too sweet for ut-
tering.
Then came an hour—the axe, the shrieking fall,
The travail—and a violin drew breath
To sigh and sob and sing of life and death:
A glorious interpreter of all
Dreams, delight, despair, that holds for me
Heartbreak, beauty, and a strange wild ecstasy.
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