How painful in cruel irony…
That you, though sighted, cannot see:
Deafness- not pride- is Beethoven’s malady.
.
This “unlicked bearcub” of a child
Was born spirited and wild,
Yet yearned to love, kind and mild.
.
But those called to the highest aims
Are ne’er allowed to stay the same:
Both blessing and curse shall raise a name.
.
Torn ‘tween the two he yet did know
That despite the silent, awful blow,
The call of Art he was destined to follow.
.
The Muse and Virtue spurred him on;
This lifesong born and bred in Bonn
Would never, though softened, fade as gone.
.
Tired eyes shall ruin writers
And fear mute the tongues of singers.
But these who quit are amateurs
For trials train the masters.
.
Art’s best servants are the ones
Who fight to finish work begun.
These faithful press onward through life
To create art out of their strife.
A Bookish Charm 