My Lady's Violin

1895

If I were but her violin,
Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,
Ah, what ecstatic bliss!
To feel the throbbing of each vein
As from sweet music's tangled skein
Come sounds as soft as summer's rain
When storm clouds gently kiss!
If I were but her violin,
Her wooing, cooing violin!

If I were but her violin,
With envied place beneath her chin,
How sweet would be the note
I'd yield to her caressing hands—
The treasure which her skill demands,
Or servile be, as slave who stands
To kiss the hand which smote,
If I were but her violin,
Her heart subduing violin!

If I were but her violin,
To rest no more beneath her chin,
How sad would be the day
When music's daughter was brought low,
And when, with trembling hands and slow,
She'd lay me with the useless bow,
Forever from her touch away!
An old, neglected violin,
A silent, soundless violin!

— T. Hussey in Midland Monthly.