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An old violin almost one hundred years old,
Graces the top of a piano for display,
Beside it rests its cohort, the tattered bow,
Once they brought enjoyment to folk on many days.
Lovely sounds came as bow moved across the strings,
When a young woman played it with gifted hands.
Grand performances and concerts that could have been,
Were challenged before what should have been began.
Honoring husband’s dislike for violin strings,
Such wife as God ever gave a man here below,
Gave up her violin and great joy it would bring,
Works of art went silent at last stroke of the bow.
Humility, which true love must impart,
Considering others more important than self,
Like the wife who held that violin to her heart,
Meekly, yet tearfully placed it on the shelf.
The music died on that fateful day,
As a result of love under strain,
Went gracefully to an early grave,
Violin was never heard again.
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