Poem By Lyna Goodhue
A stately march to some is she
But some from whirling discord flee.
To some a sombre dirge plays slow
Devoid of melody or glow.
To some a cheerful happy song
Throbs through the music all day long
To some discordant, syncopation.
Deep depression, wild elation.
To most of us the song may be
A varied ever changing by
Deep discordant chords as well
More anguish than the soul can tell.
Each of us but dimly hear
Each other's tune, so far, so near.
Why can't my deafened ears hear true
The tune that now plays clear for you?