E .
N . DA
C . ANDRADE.
* THE
VIOLIN .
IF
there
be
soul in
wood
and
strings
1
To
humour thus the
quiet
night ,
If matter
dead
so
strives , and
sings
Such
glory, with
such
transitory ,
Spontaneous , tremulous sounds
attesting ,
With
cadences
like
rose
leaves
shed
When
keen
sweet winds
disperse
delight,
Radiance
revealing, rising ,
resting ,
Declining ,
drooping , dying, dead .
Impetuous
to
rise
again
Like
fire , like
wild
fire 's
flaming
flakes ,
Like
high -hurled
spray
on moon -
lit
main
,
Like
a
fountain
throwing
liquid
light
,
Bearing
such
joy
to
such
a
height
,
Scattering
delight
in
such
swift
shakes
,
Lending
desire
such
subtle
wings
All
this
the
simple
wood
and
strings
With
human
hand
to
guide
it,
makes
.
What
sounds
should
I,
so
complex
more
,
Constructed
with
such
artifice
,
So
full
of
wonder and
device
,
Surrounded with
such
happy
store
Of miracle
to
celebrate
,
New
visions
sprung
with
each
new
date
,
Of fields
unknown
,
and
paths untrod
,
What
sounds
should
I
then
resonate
Beneath
the
urgent hand
of
God
?