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.