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.
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