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