from The Luthier

The Violin Speaks


Master of Music
Let my voice be
Clear as he dreamed it
Who fashioned me.

Bow, press strings lightly
That each note wake
Perfect as bird-song
Tuned for his sake.

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

Mute wood remember
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!

from The Luthier: poems (Reed, 1966), © Ruth Gilbert 1966, used by permission of the author. Recording from the Waiata New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive 1974

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