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.

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