MUSIC OF THE SLUMS

Over a slum his sign swings out,

Over a street where the city's shout

Is deadened into a sob of pain —

Where even joy has a minor strain.

“Violins made,” read the sign. It swings

Over a street where sorrow sings;

Over a street where people give

Their right to laugh for a chance to live.

He works alone with his head bent low

And all the sorrow and all the woe,

And all the pride of a banished race,

Stare from the eyes that light his face.

But he never sighs and his slender hand,

Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand —

Fastens it tight, but tenderly

As if he dreams of some melody.

Some melody of his yesterday....

Will it, I wonder, find its way

Out to the world, when fingers creep

Over the strings that lie asleep?

Or will the city's misery

Mould the song in a tragic key —

Making its sweetest, faintest breath

Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

Maker of music — who can know

Where the work of his hand shall go?

Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,

Comfort to ease the suffering —

Maybe his dreams will have their part

Buried deep in the music's heart....

Out of a chain of dreary days,

Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out,

Over a street where dread meets doubt —

“Violins made,” reads the sign. It swings

Over a street where sorrow sings.