The Touch of The Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
" A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who will make it three?"

"Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three..." But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loosened strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quite and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
" A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! and who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once: Three thousand, twice,
And going and gone," said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand.
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply
"The touch of the Master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like this old violin.

A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game - And he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of the soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
-Myra Brooks Welch

My Kate

My Kate
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning




She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she's still remembered on warm and cold days--
                                                                                       My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face;
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth--
                                                                           My Kate.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke;
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Thought the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone--
                                                                                        My Kate.
I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise; I infer
'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her--
                                                                                      My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown--
                                                                                      My Kate.
None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used--that was all;
If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went--
                                                                                           My Kate.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her--see what you have!
She made the grass greener even here with her grave--
                                                                                          My Kate.

Crossing The Bar
by Alfred Lord Tennyson




Sunset and evening star,
 And one clear call for me,
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
 When I put out to sea.


But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
 Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
 Turns again home.


Twilight and evening bell,
 And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
 When I embark;


For tho' from out our bourne of time and place
 The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
 When I have crossed the bar.



My mom showed me this poem awhile back. She told me that this poem was read at my great-grandfather's funeral. I really like the last two lines.

Fairy Feet

Nobody lives in the cottage now,

 But birds build under the thatch,

And a trailing rose half hides the door

 And twines itself round the latch.

Nobody walks upon the cobble path, 

 Where the grass peeps in between,

But fairy feet tread the cobblestones

 And keep them wonderfully clean.

Nobody knows that the raindrops bright

 Which fall on the grey old stones

Are the feet of fairies dancing for joy

 On the path that nobody owns.

-Phyllis L. Garlick

I just found this one today...really liked it.

The House with Nobody in it a poem by Joyce Kilmer

The House with Nobody in it





Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track

I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.



I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;

That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.

I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.



This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,

And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;

But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.



If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid

I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be

And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.



Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,

Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.

But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone

For the lack of something within it that it has never known.



But a house that has done what a house should do,

a house that has sheltered life,

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,

A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.



So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,

Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,

For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.