The maestro brought his bow to answering strings,
And sound born there swept forth in strains so sweet
That all who heard were hushed in ecstasy
To hear earth's harmony and heaven's meet.
What made the music? Was it he who played?
He did no more than touch the proper strings
That brought vibrations into harmony
And sent it forth on song's melodic wings.
Or was it then the violin, a group
Of taut strings mounted on a wooden shell?
Without some law by which it must be played
Mere wood and strings could never sing so well.
