THE MASTER-PLAYER
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n old, worn harp that had been playedTill all its strings were loose and frayed,Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,To play. But each in turn had foundNo sweet responsiveness of sound. Then Love the Master-Player cameWith heaving breast and eyes aflame;The Harp he took all undismayed,Smote on its strings, still strange to song,And brought forth music sweet and strong.
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