It is good to praise the Lord,
and to sing psalms to your name, O Most High,
to proclaim your mercy in the morning
and your faithfulness by night;
on the ten-stringed lyre and the harp,
with songs upon the lyre
Psalm 91
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all week long
my daughter is playing
her violin
miles away
the rich notes
and some
annoying
the dead
are flying
off the whorls
of her finger tips
and tensions of the strings
into the looms of silences
and darkly woven
murmurings
of the stage
all week long
she plays
and becomes for a time
a song held out
from the measures
of love
or the dancing
in a concertina
through the chambers
of her heart
or a bright
fountain
rising
and falling
from a distance
like light
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