A dryad’s home was once the tree
From which they carved this wondrous toy,
Who chanted lays of love and glee,
Till every leaflet thrilled with joy.
But when the tempest laid it low,
The exiled fay flew to and fro;
Till finding here her home once more,
She warbles wildly as before!
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust,—
The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only trifling things—
A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.
He ’d nothing but his violin,
I ’d nothing but my song,
But we were wed when skies were blue
And summer days were long;
And when we rested by the hedge,
The robins came and told
How they had dared to woo and win,
When early Spring was cold.
We sometimes supped on dew-berries,
Or slept among the hay,
But oft the...
Honest stradivari made men:
With the gift of love he blest me;
Once, delight, a master played me,
Love awoke when he caressed me!
Oh the deep, ecstatic burning!
Oh the secrets low and tender!
Oh the passion and the yearning
At our love’s complete surrender!
Heartless men, so long to hide me
With the costly toys you...
