Rest you now, maiden,

your bare feet quiet

there against the stones

of the path that borders the river.

Rest with your silk shawl

draped 'round your shoulders,

the hem of your homespun

just brushing your ankle,

and your violin lying,

sleeping and silent,

cradled against you

in youthful, ever vigilant arms.

Rest there in silence,

the bow in repose,

a dancer no longer

moving in glory

free as an echo

on the wildest whisper of the wind.

A moment ago,

the strings were singing,

echoing joyous

from the edge of the river,

and dazzling like daybreak

the shadows that crossed

the gray and stony edges

of the quay.

A moment ago,

the bow flew like silver,

your shawl spun a banner,

your feet flashed like fire,

that scattered around you,

putting to rest

every doubt every question

as to what was true

and right

and joyful

and good

in a world that posesses

so great a wonder as music.  

Rest you now, maiden,

your soul contemplative,

your eyes perhaps saddened

by solitary thinking -

It is gone, now,

the fantastical spell

the music wove around you -

gone in the slap

of the waves on the pilings,

the chill of the evening

and the cry of the seabird,

echoing mournful and distant

above you.

Lament not, dear maiden,

as the music falls silent,

for the art of spellcasting

was wrought by your hands -

and though the wicked

weary world forget her,

your violin remembers,

the magic of the rush.