Under your rounded chin
The polished wood of your violin
Comes lengthening down to your slender hand,
Where a bit of ribbon (a silken band)
Flutters and floats. 'T were better planned
To be under your rounded chin.

Now from your snowy throat
Swells on the air a soft, sweet note;
And, caught in a perfect chord by the strings,
Its cadence rises and falls and swings;
And I listen enrapt, as the melody rings
Up from your snowy throat.

Deftly your fingers go
O'er the quivering strings, now high, now low;
And words that speak from the music start,
And for me thrill the world in its every part,
Until I feel that over my heart
Deftly your fings go.