My mom asked me to translate this poem by Bécquer. Here's the original:
Del salón en el ángulo oscuro,
From the dark corner of the room,
Maybe forgotten by its owner,
Silent and covered by dust
Was seen the harp.
How many a note slept in its strings,
Like the bird sleeps in the branches,
Waiting for the snowy hand
That knows how to pluck them!
Oh!---I thought---How often talent
So sleeps in the bottom of the soul,
And a voice, like Lazarus, waits
To be told: "Get up and come forth!"