Because after all, it's just wood and strings,
What use is it in the bigger frame of things?
These notes and phrases and tinkling tunes,
What use is it when a violin sings?

Because after all, it's just paint on display,
What good is it in the everyday?
The streaks and peaks and swirl of colours,
What good is done when a painting is made?

But the beauty of art is a thing of its own,
Joy, immeasurable, to those who alone
Know its secrets;
And these things that we feel,
These moments we steal,
in quiet appreciation,
are golden treasures in the clockwork motion
of the everyday world.