Upon the very spot his hand would touch
If he were playing it. See! she kisses it,
And clasps her arms around the slender neck,
And hugs it to her breast! It will not do—
Still, still she cannot weep.
The violin
Is hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;
’Twas with the violin he used to lull
His boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,
His head was on its evening pillow laid.