Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Master-Player

  An old, worn harp that had been played
  Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
  Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,
  To play. But each in turn had found
  No sweet responsiveness of sound.

  Then Love the Master-Player came
  With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
  The Harp he took all undismayed,
  Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
  And brought forth music sweet and strong.

English Poetry - E-mail