The Violinist.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
But that one air for all that throng! And yet
How wondrously the magic strain went through
Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew
Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet,
While eyes long fed on visions of regret
Beheld life's rose, upspringing from its rue;
For some, the night-wind in thy music blew,
For some, the spring's celestial clarinet!
And each heart knew its own : the poet heard.
Ravished, the song his lips could never free;
The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word;
The mother thought, "O little, buried face!"
And one, through veil of doubt and agony,
Saw Christ, alone in the dim garden-place!