I Took My Fiddle

This poem by Byron Herbert Reece was given to me recently and some of my musician friends came to mind. I share it with these friends today and with all other musicians and artists…and we are all artists.

I took my fiddle
That sings and cries
To a hill in the middle
of Paradise.

I sat at the base
Of a golden stone
In that holy place
To play alone.

I tuned the strings
And began to play,
And a crowd of wings
Were bent my way.

A voice said
Amid the stir:
“We that were dead
O fiddler,

“With purest gold
Are robed and shod,
And we behold
The face of God.

Our Halls can show
No thing so rude
As your horsehair bow,
Or your fiddewood;

And yet can they
So well entrance
If you but play
Then we must dance!”

Byron Herbert Reece

 

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