Poetry Friday: The Old Violin by Maurice Francis Egan

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.

- The Old Violin by Maurice Francis Egan

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