THOUGH tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust, <br />Like some great thought on a forgotten page; <br />The soul of music cannot fade or rust,— <br />The voice within it stronger grows with age; <br />Its strings and bow are only trifling things— <br />A master-touch!—its sweet soul wakes and sings.<br /><br />Maurice Frances Egan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-violin/
