As the sunshine rose above the mountains,
It sent a ripple of warmth down the hill.
The snow glistened in the light now and then,
But on the whole, the scene was quiet and still.
Except for one small daring little flower
That unfurled its first petal with a tune -
With a melody that had the soft power
Of music harnessing the beauty of the moon.
The sweet, sweet melody travelled the breeze
And danced 'cross the blanket of silvery white.
The tune found a cardinal in the trees
That carried it o'er hillsides in its flight.
The melody alighted on the quill
Of a composer renowned for wond'rous skill.

The quill became alive in the man's hand
As the flower's sweet music became ink
That lept and bound off lines in song quite grand,
Leaving the composer no time to think.
But think he needed not to do for lo,
As the sun rose, the flower unfurled more
Of its soft petals, shining in the snow
And sweet music wafted in through the door.
The composer wrote it all down with care,
Making sure not to miss a single note.
Of luck, he knew he had been given his share
For from the flower, a symphony he wrote.
The symphony grew with the age of man,
Continuing years after it began.

And still today, the sun shines in the morn
To welcome the flower, full of moon light.
The flower grows with not a single thorn
And brings the composer such grand delight.
For today, the symphony will be played
By none other than the inspirator.
Playing the French Horn is a young pretty maid
Who needs not while she plays look at the score.
For the piece that she plays is memory -
Memory of the beauty of her life.
The symphony is the maid's life story:
Each trill, a smile, each long bass note, a strife.
Indeed, the maid is the beautiful flower
Whose first notes revealed music's soft power.