They called him mad,--the poor, old man, Whose white hair, worn and thin, Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played His cherished violin, Forever drawing to and fro O'er silent strings a loosened bow. At times on his pathetic face A look of perfect rapture shone, Intent on some celestial chords, Discerned by him alone; And sometimes he would smile and pause, As if receiving loud applause.…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.