The Violin.

Touch gently, friend, and slow, the violin, So sweet and low, That my dreaming senses may be beckoned so Into a rest as deep as the long past "years ago!" So softly, then, begin; And ever gently touch the violin, Until an impulse grows of a sudden, like wind On the brow of the earth, And the voice of your violin shows its wide-swung girth With a crash of the strings and a medley of rage and mirth; And my rested senses spring Like juice from a broken rind, And the joys that your melodies bring I know worth a life-time to win, As you waken to love and this hour your violin!