Proem

They called him mad,--the poor, old man, Whose white hair, worn and thin, Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played His cherished violin, Forever drawing to and fro O'er silent strings a loosened bow.

At times on his pathetic face A look of perfect rapture shone, Intent on some celestial chords, Discerned by him alone; And sometimes he would smile and pause, As if receiving loud applause.

So, many a humble poet dreams His songs will touch the human heart, And full of hope his offering lays Before the shrine of Art; Poor dreamer, may he never know That he too draws a silent bow!