I found this poem, that I had taken from a very old copy of the British Punch Magazine (could date back to the 1800's, not sure). I had it back in the seventies and saved these words; I love it:
Strike the strings and let there be
Little sounds that sing to me.
Flighting pigeons’ soft applause,
Unchecked moan of yawning jaws;
Thrusting needles pricking through
Nursery cotton stiff and new;
Whimpered ecstasy and grunt,
Sleeping spaniel dreams the hunt;
Taps that still the tuning notes,
Reedy songs in childish throats,
Country boots along the lane,
Wind-blown laughter in the rain.
Lift the pipe and softly blow
Music I shall always know.
can't read the copy, but it says (as in an epitaph) - The only proof he needed for the existence of God was MUSIC.