THE OLD VIOLIN
He there among the rubble lies, Dank cobwebs deck his brow. Sad is the violin as he sighs, "What waste and death lie now!" What waste and death lie here within This tiny attic dim. How silent lies the violin, No music comes from him. And then to free him of the sight Of dirt and misery, He shuts his eyes, in hopes he might His own orchestra see. That hand he longed for, O, so much! He feels it once again; That kindly chin and gentle touch, Calls forth a wondrous strain. He pictures now the op'ra nights, With beauty and with show; The cheering crowds and dazzling lights And tunes about him flow. The winds come through the broken pane And frolic through his strings, And so with boundless joy again, A murmur low he brings. —Karen Thomson, 14 (original).
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THE OLD VIOLIN, Auckland Star, Volume LXXVI, Issue 188, 10 August 1945
THE OLD VIOLIN Auckland Star, Volume LXXVI, Issue 188, 10 August 1945
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