I. the children of the poor

 

The Children of the Poor

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

 

4 

First fight. Then fiddle. Ply the slipping string
With feathery sorcery; muzzle the note
With hurting love; the music that they wrote
Bewitch, bewilder. Qualify to sing
Threadwise. Devise no salt, no hempen thing
For the dear instrument to bear. Devote 
The bow to silks and honey. Be remote
A while from malice and from murdering.
But first to arms, to armor. Carry hate 
In front of you and harmony behind.
Be deaf to music and to beauty blind.
Win war. Rise bloody, maybe not too late
For having first to civilize a space 
Wherein to play your violin with grace.