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Mountain Fiddler


by Byron Herbert Reece

I took my fiddle
That sings and cries
To a hill in the middle
Of Paradise.

I sat at the base
Of a golden stone
In that holy place
To play alone.

I tuned the strings
And began to play,
And a crowd of wings
Were bent my way.

A voice said
Amid the stir:
“We that were dead,
O Fiddler,

“With purest gold
Are robed and shod,
And we behold
The face of God.

“Our halls can show
No thing so rude
As your horsehair bow,
Or your fiddlewood;

“And yet can they
So well entrance
If you but play
Then we must dance!”

[source unknown]