Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
That God must be
Who directs the play,
And we the players in His Orchestra,
Make harmonies or discords
As He wills-
He crooks His little finger
And the chords
Come swelling from the instruments we hold
Within our eager hands.
He nods His head
And majesty sublime comes crashing forth,
Or, with a simple drop of His baton,
Makes silent all the quivering, dancing strings
We play upon-
Yes, but who would not be proud
To be a player in a Symphony
And to be directed by
The Hand of such an Artist!
Written by Esther Popel (1896-1958)
<----> SEND THIS POEM TO A FRIEND! <---->