They called him mad,-the poor, old man,
Whose white hair, worn and thin,
Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played
His cherished violin,
Forever drawing to and fro
O'er silent strings a loosened bow.
At times on his pathetic face
A look of perfect rapture shone,
Intent on some celestial chords,
Discerned by him alone;
And sometimes he would smile and pause,
As if receiving loud applause.
So, many a humble poet dreams
His songs will touch the human heart,
And full of hope his offering lays
Before the shrine of Art;
Poor dreamer, may he never know
That he too draws a silent bow!
Proem
John L. Stoddard
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Poem topics: alone, hair, heart, hope, never, perfect, smile, sometimes, forever, rapture, human, white, face, touch, humble, celestial, poet, poor, silent, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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