The Violin

With tool and wood the craftsman slave

Patience within the soul he gave

To ever last, through ages long, so very light,

but yet so strong

At his bench both day and night, with tool and

chisel he carve just right

A neck to make, and turn the scroll

The pegs to fit, he drill the hole

Hard maple back, and spruce the top, the sides

he steam and interlock

A sound post fit and so the bridge, to fit the

contour of the ridge

A piece of wood he put in place, to give it

depth and also bass

A varnish stain of amber hue, a reddish

stain to blend in too

Some Virtuoso maybe play, to give someone

a brighter day

For music make the world go round, a

greater piece of Art not found

Four strings he add, and then to pitch, to

test the soul, he gave so rich

A balanced bow he now must make, the

hair from mane of horses take

Then to his hand, he draw the bow, across

the strings the music flow

A Symphony, a quiet band

A melody heard across the land