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.