Who picks and strums my old guitar
picking out the fiddle tunes I
half remember from some ancient time?
Who's twisting in the writhing wind
swaying with the blowing trees
shaping shifts and shimmers in that
eastern mountain sound?
Oh, the sound, south hearted sound
a ringing tang and metal twang
a thumping bass beast rising
like a pulsing heart beneath its wooden skin!
Who knows this gives to quiet truth
the ringing force of heaven's voice
makes music of the rain that
splashing pounds upon my old tin roof