Poetry, Music, and Art, Got together one day over tea, They taunted and teased each other As to which was the best of the three. Poetry said, "I move people's hearts," Said Music, "I stir their toes," "Hmm," Art thought for a moment, Then declared, "I touch their souls." They agreed each had great value, But which one did the most good? Without hesitation Music spoke up, As everyone knew she would. Never held back by shyness, Music always blew her own horn, "I'm the first sound a baby hears," She said, "When it is newly born." "The first time a mother rocks her child, I'm the sweet lullaby that is heard," "Hold on," admonished Poetry, "Who was it that wrote your words?" Now Art rolled her eyes, "Pooh pooh," she cried. "I play an early part, too, I decorate new babies rooms, In shades of pinks or blues." And I'm there for a child as he grows," Art went on to say, "I lead him from his coloring books, To the real works of art on display. "Ho ho," laughed Music heartily, "A child can't dance without me, And as he grows older, his first romance Often starts with my melodies." "I am a man's constant companion, I make his life complete, I'm with him when he celebrates, And I'm with him when he weeps." Then Poetry said, shaking her head, "My job is never done, I start tots off with nursery rhymes, That's when love of words is first begun." "Then, while in school, they are exposed To master poets of the past, They memorize their famous lines, Which often even last." "Folks appreciate me all their lives, I end up sometimes on gravestones, Or I am written in memoriam, For souls who have gone home." "Ah yes," commented Art, "I'm there, too, when someone dies, I am the portrait of the loved one, That makes the family cry." "I arrange the flowers at the church, And see the colors are just right, And then I decorate again, At the barren, cold grave site." "Well," added Music, sadly, "I am the requiem that's played, As mourners say their last farewells, And bow their heads to pray." "I am the voice of the soloist, Or the hymn the choir sings, Or the organ with its somber chords Or the bells the chaplain rings." "Now that's enough; let's all cheer up" Art dried her tears and spoke, "I feel I inspire Poetry To write her words of hope." "And what's more, I encourage Music To create her lovely melodies," I touch the hearts of both of you, I must be the greatest of us three." Poetry then took her stand And a dreamy look was in her eye. "Oh Art, how many of my verses Have made you paint and cry?" "And, Music," continued Poetry, "How many tunes have you done Based wholly on my written words? Oh, I must be the greatest one." "Now look you two," said Music, "I, too, can pass these tests, I have inspired both of you, So I must be the very best." "Poetry, I made you write, You could not restrain your pen, And, Art, I made your colors flow, Time and time again." So Poetry, Music, and Art. Looked at each other in awe, They recognized their mutual worth, And their debate was called a draw. They shook hands and hugged and smiled, In admiration and respect, The world indeed a better place, Because these three had met. Virginia (Ginny) Ellis ©February 2004 ~ Revised May 2005 Used with Permission All Rights Reserved By Author Mail Website share


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"Voices Of Spring"
Written by Johann Strauss
Bouquet of Roses