The Lady and the Violin

From a poem entitled, “The Violin Speaks” by Ruth Gilbert, 1966

Master of Music
Let my voice be
Clear a she dreamed it 

Bow, press strings lightly
That each note woke
Perfect on bird-song
Tuned for his sake 

Strings gravely, sweetly
Answer the bow
Telling his rapt ear
All it would know 

Mute wood remembers
You were a tree
Moved by the wind once
To melody

Master of Music
I ask this thing
Now as he leans to me,
Let me sing!