The Fiddler

Why, upon this lovely day,
Must that wretched fiddler play, —
All the sky one stainless blue, —
Every note he strikes, untrue! ...
Summer deep embowered in flowers,
Silent music in the hours,
In the east a feather moon, —
And — that fiddler out of tune!
God's hand never slipped to mar
At the making of a star;
There's no true excuse yet made
For the bungler at his trade!
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