Myra Brooks Welch
From;
http://oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Myr...
I lived from 1878-1950. I was from the United States, and am in the Americas category.
Probably best known for the poem “The Master’s Hand” written in 1921, Myra Brooks Welch was born in the late 19th Century in America. Thanks to one of our Oldpoetry readers we believe she was born in Illinois 1878, daughter of John Brooks,and she married Otis Welch.
She was a resident of La Verne, California. As a youngster her special joy was playing the organ but this was denied her in later life as she suffered badly from arthritis and spent much of her time in a wheelchair. She wrote with an inverted pencil in each of her gnarled hands and would pick out the words on a type writer. She said that the joy of her writing outweighed the pain of her efforts. She was known as “The poet with the singing soul”
**** The death date is approximate. *****
“Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneerThought it scarcely worth his whileTo waste much time on the old violin,But held it up with a smile.“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”“A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two?Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”“Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;Going for three…” But no,From the room, far back, a grey-haired manCame forward and picked up the bow;Then wiping the dust from the old violin,And tightening the loosened strings,He played a melody pure and sweet,As a caroling angel sings.The music ceased, and the auctioneer,With a voice that was quiet and low,Said: “What am I bid for the old violin?”And he held it up with the bow.“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice,And going and gone,” said he.The people cheered, but some of them cried,“We do not quite understand.What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:“The touch of the Master’s hand.”And many a man with life out of tune,And battered and scarred with sin,Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowdMuch like the old violin.A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,A game — and he travels on.He is “going” once, and “going” twice,He’s “going” and almost “gone.”But the Master comes, and the foolish crowdNever can quite understandThe worth of a soul and the change that is wroughtBy the touch of the Master’s hand.”