Maker of music -- who can know
Where the work of his hand shall go?
Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
Comfort to ease the suffering --

Maybe his dreams will have their part
Buried deep in the music's heart. . . .
Out of a chain of dreary days,
Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out,
Over a street where dread meets doubt --
"Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings.



II. THE PARK BAND

(Side by side and silent -- eagerly they stand --
Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are clasped
together,
Through the thrilling softness of the late spring
weather,
All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain,
Listen to a serenade written long ago!
You will recognize the song -- you who care must