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2012-04-15 Weigel [recital program]

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2012-04-15 Weigel [recital program]

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              David Weigel
bass-baritone
Ināra Zandmane, piano
Graduate Recital
Sunday, April 15, 2012
7:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Building
Program
from Schwanengesang, D. 957 Franz Schubert
Liebesbotschaft (1797-1828)
Ständchen
Kriegers Ahnung
Ihr Bild
Der Doppelgänger
"#$%& & "'($)& $*#+,& (Songs and Dances of Death) Modest Mussorgsky
!"#$%&#'()* (Lullaby) (1835-1881)
+&,&()-) (Serenade)
.,&/)0 (Trepak)
1"#0"2"-&3 (The Field Marshal)
Brief Pause
from Earth and Air and Rain, Op. 15 Gerald Finzi
The Clock of the Years (1901-1956)
The Phantom
To Lizbie Browne
In a Churchyard (Song of the Yew Tree)
Proud Songsters
David Weigel is a student of Dr. Robert Wells
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Franz Schubert
Schwanengesang, D. 957
Liebesbotschaft
Text by Ludwig Rellstab (1799-1860)
Rauschendes Bächlein,
so silbern und hell,
eilst zur Geliebten
so munter und schnell?
Ach, trautes Bächlein,
mein Bote sei du;
bringe die Grüße
des Fernen ihr zu.
All ihre Blumen,
im Garten gepflegt,
die sie so lieblich
am Busen trägt,
und ihre Rosen
in purpurner Glut,
Bächlein, erquicke
mit kühlender Flut.
Wenn sie am Ufer,
in Träume versenkt,
meiner gedenkend
das Köpfchen hängt,
tröste die Süße
mit freundlichem Blick,
denn der Geliebte
kehrt bald zurück.
Neigt sich die Sonne
mit rötlichem Schein,
wiege das Liebchen
in Schlummer ein.
Rausche sie murmelnd
in süße Ruh,
flüstre ihr Träume
der Liebe zu.
Ständchen
Text by Ludwig Rellstab
Leise flehen meine Lieder
Durch die Nacht zu dir;
In den stillen Hain hernieder,
Liebchen, komm zu mir!
Flüsternd schlanke Wipfel rauschen
In des Mondes Licht;
Des Verräters feindlich Lauschen
Fürchte, Holde, nicht.
Hörst die Nachtigallen schlagen?
Ach! sie flehen dich,
Mit der Töne süßen Klagen
Flehen sie für mich.
Sie verstehn des Busens Sehnen,
Kennen Liebesschmerz,
Swan Song
Love’s Message
Murmuring brooklet,
so silvery bright,
are you hurrying to my beloved
so cheerfully and so quickly?
Ah, dear brooklet
be my messenger,
bring her the greetings
of her far away friend.
All of the flowers
that she tends in the garden,
and wears so charmingly
on her bosom,
and her roses
that glow with a purple fire,
refresh them, brooklet
with your cooling waters.
If on your banks she,
sunk in dreams,
thinking of me,
hangs her little head,
comfort the sweet girl
with a friendly look
for her beloved
will soon return.
If the sun is setting
with a reddish gleam,
lull my sweetheart
to sleep.
Softly babbling murmur her
into sweet rest,
whisper dreams
of Love to her.
Serenade
Softly pleading, my songs go
through the night to you;
in the quiet grove down here,
dearest, come to me!
Whispering tall treetops rustle
in the moonlight;
that treacherous ears may listen,
do not fear, my dear.
Do you hear the nightingales’ song?
Ah! They implore you.
With the sweet complaint of their notes
they plead for me.
They understand the longing of my heart,
know the pain of love;
Rühren mit den Silbertönen
Jedes weiche Herz.
Laß auch dir die Brust bewegen,
Liebchen, höre mich!
Bebend harr' ich dir entgegen!
Komm, beglücke mich!
Kriegers Ahnung
Text by Ludwig Rellstab
In tiefer Ruh liegt um mich her
der Waffenbrüder Kreis;
mir ist das Herz so bang und schwer,
von Sehnsucht mir so heiß.
Wie hab ich oft so süß geträumt
an ihrem Busen warm!
Wie freundlich schien des Herdes Glut,
lag sie in meinem Arm!
Hier, wo der Flammen düstrer Schein
ach! nur auf Waffen spielt,
hier fühlt die Brust sich ganz allein,
der Wehmut Träne quillt.
Herz! Daß der Trost dich nicht verläßt!
Es ruft noch manche Schlacht.
Bald ruh ich wohl und schlafe fest,
Herzliebste - gute Nacht!
Ihr Bild
Text by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)
Ich stand in dunkeln Träumen
und starrte ihr Bildnis an,
und das geliebte Antlitz
Heimlich zu leben begann.
Um ihre Lippen zog sich
Ein Lächeln wunderbar,
Und wie von Wehmutstränen
Erglänzte ihr Augenpaar.
Auch meine Tränen flossen
Mir von den Wangen herab—
Und ach, ich kann's nicht glauben,
Daß ich dich verloren hab!
Der Doppelgänger
Text by Heinrich Heine
Still ist die Nacht, es ruhen die Gassen,
In diesem Hause wohnte mein Schatz;
Sie hat schon längst die Stadt verlassen,
Doch steht noch das Haus auf dem selben
Platz.
Da steht auch ein Mensch und starrt in die
Höhe
Und ringt die Hände vor Schmerzensgewalt;
they touch with their silvery voices
every tender heart.
Let you heart, too, be moved—
dearest, hear me!
Trembling I await you!
Come and make me happy!
Warrior’s Foreboding
My comrades in arms lie in a circle
all around me in deep repose;
my heart is so anxious and heavy,
so ardent with longing.
How often I have rested so sweetly
on her warm bosom!
How friendly the glow of the hearth
as she lay in my arms!
Here, where the gloomy light of the flames,
alas! plays only on weapons,
here my heart feels alone,
and tears of melancholy well up.
Heart, don’t let comfort forsake you!
Many a battle will still be calling.
Soon I will be at rest and sleeping soundly.
Dearest sweetheart, good night!
Her Picture
I stood in dark dreams
and stared at her portrait,
and that beloved face
secretly began to come alive.
About her lips there began to play
a wonderful smile,
and, as if with melancholy tears,
her two eyes glistened.
My tears, too, were flowing
down my cheeks—
and ah! I cannot believe
that I have lost you!
My Double
Still is the night, the streets are asleep,
In this house my love once lived.
She left the city long ago,
yet the house still stands on the same spot.
Another man stands there looking up,
and rings his hands in agony,
I shudder to see his face—
Mir graust es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe -
Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt.
Du Doppelgänger, du bleicher Geselle!
Was äffst du nach mein Liebesleid,
Das mich gequält auf dieser Stelle
So manche Nacht, in alter Zeit?
Modest Mussorgsky
"#$%& & "'($)& $*#+,&
Texts by Arseny Golenishchev-Kutozov
(1848-1914)
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The moonlight shows me my own figure.
O my double! Pale comrade!
Why do you mock my unhappy love
which tortured me upon this spot
so many a night, long ago?
Songs and Dances of Death
Lullaby
A child moans… a candle burns low,
and casts a dim flicker around.
All through the night, the cradle rocking,
the mother has not slumbered.
Early in the morning, at the door so gently
Death, the compassionate, knocks!
The mother gives a start, looks around in
fear…
Death: “Be not afraid, my dear!
The pale light of morn now peeps through
the window,
in weeping, in longing, in prayer,
you have worn yourself out, now rest a
while,
and I will take your place at his side.
You were not able to soothe the poor child.
I will sing a sweeter song.”
Mother: “Hush! My child is tossing and
restless,
It grieves my heart!”
Death: “Come now, he soon will listen to me.
Hush-a-bye, baby, my own.”
Mother: “His cheeks are pale, his breath is
failing…
Be silent now, do, I beg you!”
Death: “That’s a good sign: soon his suffering
will end.
Hush-a-bye, baby, my own.”
Mother: “Get away, curses on you!
By your caresses you will destroy the joy of
my heart!”
Death: “No, I will breathe the sleep of peace
on the infant;
Hush-a-bye, baby, my own.”
Mother: “Have mercy, stay just for a moment,
before ending your dreadful song!”
Death: See now, he sleeps to the gentle
singing.
Hush-a-bye, baby, my own.”
Serenade
The magical languor, the blue of the night,
the trembling twilight of spring…
She listens, the invalid, hanging her head,
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to the whisper of night’s silent words.
Sleep does not close her wide, burning eyes.
Life to its joys calls her still,
while under her window in the silence of
midnight
Death sings his serenade:
“In the dark gloom of prison, severe and
confining,
your youth will fade away,
but I, your unknown knight, with my
wondrous power, will set you free.
Rise, look at yourself: with what beauty
your face shines so radiantly,
your rosy face, your rippling tresses,
veil your form like a cloud.
The blue radiance of your fixed gaze
is brighter than the skies or fire…
With midday’s heat your breath blows over
me…
You have bewitched me.
Your ear is captivated by my serenade,
your whispered words summoned your
knight.
Your knight has come for his final reward:
the hour of rapture is near.
Fair is your form, enthralling your tremor,
Oh, I will smother you
with fierce embraces; my words are of love.
Listen!… Be still!… You are mine!
Trepak (Russian dance)
In the forest and glades not a soul is in sight.
The blizzard wails and howls.
It feels as if in the gloom of the night
the cruel snow is burying some poor man;
look, so it is! In the darkness a peasant
by Death is embraced and caressed;
with a drunkard Death dances a trepak
together,
and sings in his ear a sweet song:
“Hey, poor peasant, you wretched old man,
you’ve drunk yourself silly and wandered
astray,
but the blizzard, like a witch, rose and played
with you,
from the glades to the dense forest chanced
to drive you.
Through sorrow and grief and want grown
weary,
lie down, rest and sleep, my friend,
and I shall warm you with a cover of snow,
and around you, I will start a fine game.
Shake up the bed, you swan-like snow!
Hey there, begin, start up a song, wild
weather!
A song to last the whole night through,
that this drunkard may sink into sleep to its
strains!
O you forests, heavens and clouds,
darkness, breeze, and sweeping snow!
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Wrap him in a shroud of softest snow;
in it I’ll shelter the old man like a babe…
Sleep, my friend, happy peasant,
summer has come, and all is in bloom!
Over the cornfields the sun smiles and the
sickles swing,
The song rises up, and the doves are
flying…”
The Field Marshal
The battle thunders, the armor flashes,
the bronze cannons roar,
the regiments charge, the horses rush by,
and red rivers of blood flow.
Noon burns fiercely, the people fight on;
when the sun has sunk low, the battle is
fiercer;
the sunset pales, yet the enemies fight on
more fiercely and more savagely.
And night has fallen on the field of battle.
In the gloom the legions disperse…
All is quiet, and in the darkness of night
groans rise up to the sky.
Then, illuminated by the light of the moon,
on his battle horse,
his while bones gleaming in the pale light,
comes the figure of Death; and in the quiet,
listening to the groans and prayers,
and filled with pride and satisfaction,
like a warrior chief, he circles round
the place of battle.
Up to the hill he climbs, and looks about,
stops, and gives a smile…
And over the battle plain
The voice of doom is heard:
“The fight is ended! I have conquered all!
Before me you have yielded, warriors all!
Life set you at odds, but I joined you in
peace!
Rise up together for the roll call of death!
March past in a solemn file,
I wish to record my troops;
then later you may lay your bones in the
earth,
and sweetly rest from life’s toils in the earth!
Year after year will pass by unheeded,
and amongst men all memory of you will
disappear.
But I’ll not forget, and over your bones
I’ll hold a loud feast at midnight’s hour!
In the dance’s heavy tread upon the damp
earth
I’ll stamp, so your bones will never escape
the shelter of the grave,
and you will never rise from the earth again!”
Gerald Finzi
Earth and Air and Rain, Op. 15
Texts by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
The Clock of the Years
"A spirit passed before my face;
the hair of my flesh stood up."
And the Spirit said,
"I can make the clock of the years go
backward,
But am loth to stop it where you will."
And I cried, "Agreed
To that. Proceed:
It's better than dead!"
He answered, "Peace;”
And called her up—as last before me;
Then younger, younger she grew, to the year
I first had known
Her woman-grown,
And I cried, "Cease!—
"Thus far is good—
It is enough—let her stay thus always!"
But alas for me—He shook his head:
No stop was there;
And she waned child-fair,
And to babyhood.
Still less in mien
To my great sorrow became she slowly,
And smalled till she was nought at all
In his checkless griff;
And it was as if
She had never been.
"Better," I plained,
"She were dead as before! The memory of her
Had lived in me; but it cannot now!"
And coldly his voice:
"It was your choice
To mar the ordained."
The Phantom
Queer are the ways of a man I know:
He comes and stands
In a careworn craze,
And looks at the sands
And the seaward haze
With moveless hands
And face and gaze,
Then turns to go…
And what does he see when he gazes so?
They say he sees as an instant thing
More clear than to-day,
A sweet soft scene
That once was in play
By that briny green;
Yes, notes alway
Warm, real, and keen,
What his back years bring—
A phantom of his own figuring.
Of this vision of his they might say more:
Not only there
Does he see this sight,
But everywhere
In his brain–day, night,
As if on the air
It were drawn rose bright—
Yea, far from that shore
Does he carry this vision of heretofore:
A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried,
He withers daily,
Time touches her not,
But she still rides gaily
In his rapt thought
On that shagged and shaly
Atlantic spot,
And as when first eyed
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the
tide.
To Lizbie Browne
Dear Lizbie Browne,
Where are you now?
In sun, in rain?—
Or is your brow
Past joy, past pain,
Dear Lizbie Browne?
Sweet Lizbie Browne,
How you could smile,
How you could sing!—
How archly wile
In glance-giving,
Sweet Lizbie Browne!
And, Lizbie Browne,
Who else had hair
Bay-red as yours,
Or flesh so fair
Bred out of doors,
Sweet Lizbie Browne?
When, Lizbie Browne,
You had just begun
To be endeared
By stealth to one,
You disappeared
My Lizbie Browne!
Ay, Lizbie Browne,
So swift your life,
And mine so slow,
You were a wife
Ere I could show
Love, Lizbie Browne.
Still, Lizbie Browne,
You won, they said,
The best of men
When you were wed…
Where went you then,
O Lizbie Browne?
Dear Lizbie Browne,
I should have thought,
"Girls ripen fast,"
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Lizbie Browne!
But, Lizbie Browne,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign;
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Lizbie Browne!
So, Lizbie Browne,
When on a day
Men speak of me
As not, you'll say,
"And who was he?"—
Yes, Lizbie Browne.
In a Churchyard
(Song of the Yew Tree)
"It is sad that so many of worth,
Still in the flesh," soughed the yew,
"Misjudge their lot whom kindly earth
Secludes from view.
"They ride their diurnal round
Each day-span's sum of hours
In peerless ease, without jolt or bound
Or ache like ours.
"If the living could but hear
What is heard by my roots as they creep
Round the restful flock, and the things said
there,
No one would weep."
"'Now set among the wise,'
They say: 'Enlarged in scope,
That no God trumpet us to rise
We truly hope.’”
I listened to his strange tale
In the mood that stillness brings,
And I grew to accept as the day wore pale
That view of things.
Proud Songsters
The thrushes sing as the sun is going,
And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,
And as it gets dark loud nightingales
In bushes
Pipe, as they can when April wears,
As if all Time were theirs.
These are brand new birds of
twelvemonths’ growing,
Which a year ago, or less than twain,
No finches were, nor nightingales,
Nor thrushes,
But only particles of grain,
And earth, and air, and rain.

Page/Item Description

Title	2012-04-15 Weigel [recital program]
Date	2012
Creator	University of North Carolina at Greensboro. School of Music, Theatre and Dance
Subject headings	University of North Carolina at Greensboro. School of Music, Theatre and Dance;University of North Carolina at Greensboro
Place	Greensboro (N.C.)
Description	Spring 2012 programs for recitals by students in the UNCG School of Music.
Type	Text
Original format	programs
Original publisher	Greensboro N.C.: The University of North Carolina at Greensboro
Contributing institution	Martha Blakeney Hodges Special Collections and University Archives, UNCG University Libraries
Source collection	UA9.2 School of Music Performances -- Programs and Recordings, 1917-2007
Series/grouping	1: Programs
Finding aid link	https://libapps.uncg.edu/archon/index.php?p=collections/controlcard&id=608
Rights statement	http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/NoC-US/1.0/
Additional rights information	NO COPYRIGHT - UNITED STATES. This item has been determined to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. The user is responsible for determining actual copyright status for any reuse of the material.
Object ID	UA009.002.BD.2012SP.999
Digital publisher	The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, University Libraries, PO Box 26170, Greensboro NC 27402-6170, 336.334.5304
Full Text	David Weigel bass-baritone Ināra Zandmane, piano Graduate Recital Sunday, April 15, 2012 7:30 pm Recital Hall, Music Building Program from Schwanengesang, D. 957 Franz Schubert Liebesbotschaft (1797-1828) Ständchen Kriegers Ahnung Ihr Bild Der Doppelgänger "#$%& & "'($)& $#+,& (Songs and Dances of Death) Modest Mussorgsky !"#$%&#'() (Lullaby) (1835-1881) +&,&()-) (Serenade) .,&/)0 (Trepak) 1"#0"2"-&3 (The Field Marshal) Brief Pause from Earth and Air and Rain, Op. 15 Gerald Finzi The Clock of the Years (1901-1956) The Phantom To Lizbie Browne In a Churchyard (Song of the Yew Tree) Proud Songsters David Weigel is a student of Dr. Robert Wells ________ In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the Master of Music in Performance Franz Schubert Schwanengesang, D. 957 Liebesbotschaft Text by Ludwig Rellstab (1799-1860) Rauschendes Bächlein, so silbern und hell, eilst zur Geliebten so munter und schnell? Ach, trautes Bächlein, mein Bote sei du; bringe die Grüße des Fernen ihr zu. All ihre Blumen, im Garten gepflegt, die sie so lieblich am Busen trägt, und ihre Rosen in purpurner Glut, Bächlein, erquicke mit kühlender Flut. Wenn sie am Ufer, in Träume versenkt, meiner gedenkend das Köpfchen hängt, tröste die Süße mit freundlichem Blick, denn der Geliebte kehrt bald zurück. Neigt sich die Sonne mit rötlichem Schein, wiege das Liebchen in Schlummer ein. Rausche sie murmelnd in süße Ruh, flüstre ihr Träume der Liebe zu. Ständchen Text by Ludwig Rellstab Leise flehen meine Lieder Durch die Nacht zu dir; In den stillen Hain hernieder, Liebchen, komm zu mir! Flüsternd schlanke Wipfel rauschen In des Mondes Licht; Des Verräters feindlich Lauschen Fürchte, Holde, nicht. Hörst die Nachtigallen schlagen? Ach! sie flehen dich, Mit der Töne süßen Klagen Flehen sie für mich. Sie verstehn des Busens Sehnen, Kennen Liebesschmerz, Swan Song Love’s Message Murmuring brooklet, so silvery bright, are you hurrying to my beloved so cheerfully and so quickly? Ah, dear brooklet be my messenger, bring her the greetings of her far away friend. All of the flowers that she tends in the garden, and wears so charmingly on her bosom, and her roses that glow with a purple fire, refresh them, brooklet with your cooling waters. If on your banks she, sunk in dreams, thinking of me, hangs her little head, comfort the sweet girl with a friendly look for her beloved will soon return. If the sun is setting with a reddish gleam, lull my sweetheart to sleep. Softly babbling murmur her into sweet rest, whisper dreams of Love to her. Serenade Softly pleading, my songs go through the night to you; in the quiet grove down here, dearest, come to me! Whispering tall treetops rustle in the moonlight; that treacherous ears may listen, do not fear, my dear. Do you hear the nightingales’ song? Ah! They implore you. With the sweet complaint of their notes they plead for me. They understand the longing of my heart, know the pain of love; Rühren mit den Silbertönen Jedes weiche Herz. Laß auch dir die Brust bewegen, Liebchen, höre mich! Bebend harr' ich dir entgegen! Komm, beglücke mich! Kriegers Ahnung Text by Ludwig Rellstab In tiefer Ruh liegt um mich her der Waffenbrüder Kreis; mir ist das Herz so bang und schwer, von Sehnsucht mir so heiß. Wie hab ich oft so süß geträumt an ihrem Busen warm! Wie freundlich schien des Herdes Glut, lag sie in meinem Arm! Hier, wo der Flammen düstrer Schein ach! nur auf Waffen spielt, hier fühlt die Brust sich ganz allein, der Wehmut Träne quillt. Herz! Daß der Trost dich nicht verläßt! Es ruft noch manche Schlacht. Bald ruh ich wohl und schlafe fest, Herzliebste - gute Nacht! Ihr Bild Text by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) Ich stand in dunkeln Träumen und starrte ihr Bildnis an, und das geliebte Antlitz Heimlich zu leben begann. Um ihre Lippen zog sich Ein Lächeln wunderbar, Und wie von Wehmutstränen Erglänzte ihr Augenpaar. Auch meine Tränen flossen Mir von den Wangen herab— Und ach, ich kann's nicht glauben, Daß ich dich verloren hab! Der Doppelgänger Text by Heinrich Heine Still ist die Nacht, es ruhen die Gassen, In diesem Hause wohnte mein Schatz; Sie hat schon längst die Stadt verlassen, Doch steht noch das Haus auf dem selben Platz. Da steht auch ein Mensch und starrt in die Höhe Und ringt die Hände vor Schmerzensgewalt; they touch with their silvery voices every tender heart. Let you heart, too, be moved— dearest, hear me! Trembling I await you! Come and make me happy! Warrior’s Foreboding My comrades in arms lie in a circle all around me in deep repose; my heart is so anxious and heavy, so ardent with longing. How often I have rested so sweetly on her warm bosom! How friendly the glow of the hearth as she lay in my arms! Here, where the gloomy light of the flames, alas! plays only on weapons, here my heart feels alone, and tears of melancholy well up. Heart, don’t let comfort forsake you! Many a battle will still be calling. Soon I will be at rest and sleeping soundly. Dearest sweetheart, good night! Her Picture I stood in dark dreams and stared at her portrait, and that beloved face secretly began to come alive. About her lips there began to play a wonderful smile, and, as if with melancholy tears, her two eyes glistened. My tears, too, were flowing down my cheeks— and ah! I cannot believe that I have lost you! My Double Still is the night, the streets are asleep, In this house my love once lived. She left the city long ago, yet the house still stands on the same spot. Another man stands there looking up, and rings his hands in agony, I shudder to see his face— Mir graust es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe - Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt. Du Doppelgänger, du bleicher Geselle! Was äffst du nach mein Liebesleid, Das mich gequält auf dieser Stelle So manche Nacht, in alter Zeit? Modest Mussorgsky "#$%& & "'($)& $#+,& Texts by Arseny Golenishchev-Kutozov (1848-1914) !"#$%&#'() +4"(&4 ,&%5("0… +2&6), ()7",), .890#" :&,3)&4 0,87":. ;< ("6' 0"#$%&#'08 0)6), =)4' (& >)%$#)9* 9(":. ?)($:-,)(5@"('0" 2 -2&,' "94""A(" +:&,4' 9&,-"%"#'()* 9480! B>-"7(8#) :)4', "7#(8#)9' 4,&2"A("… ,,1"#(" /87)4'9, :"C -,87! D#&-("& 84" 8A 9:"4,E4 2 "0"F0". 1#)6), 4"908, #<%#, .$ 84":E#)9', 2>-,&:(E-0) (&:("A0", G /"9EA8 >) 4&%. 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to the whisper of night’s silent words. Sleep does not close her wide, burning eyes. Life to its joys calls her still, while under her window in the silence of midnight Death sings his serenade: “In the dark gloom of prison, severe and confining, your youth will fade away, but I, your unknown knight, with my wondrous power, will set you free. Rise, look at yourself: with what beauty your face shines so radiantly, your rosy face, your rippling tresses, veil your form like a cloud. The blue radiance of your fixed gaze is brighter than the skies or fire… With midday’s heat your breath blows over me… You have bewitched me. Your ear is captivated by my serenade, your whispered words summoned your knight. Your knight has come for his final reward: the hour of rapture is near. Fair is your form, enthralling your tremor, Oh, I will smother you with fierce embraces; my words are of love. Listen!… Be still!… You are mine! Trepak (Russian dance) In the forest and glades not a soul is in sight. The blizzard wails and howls. It feels as if in the gloom of the night the cruel snow is burying some poor man; look, so it is! In the darkness a peasant by Death is embraced and caressed; with a drunkard Death dances a trepak together, and sings in his ear a sweet song: “Hey, poor peasant, you wretched old man, you’ve drunk yourself silly and wandered astray, but the blizzard, like a witch, rose and played with you, from the glades to the dense forest chanced to drive you. Through sorrow and grief and want grown weary, lie down, rest and sleep, my friend, and I shall warm you with a cover of snow, and around you, I will start a fine game. Shake up the bed, you swan-like snow! Hey there, begin, start up a song, wild weather! A song to last the whole night through, that this drunkard may sink into sleep to its strains! O you forests, heavens and clouds, darkness, breeze, and sweeping snow! 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U"-$ (&>,E:" /"C-84 >) 7"-):E, B #<-@ E96&>(&4 E /):4' " 2)9. G (& >)%8-8 E 7":0" ()- 2):E 1E, %8-8 /,)2E4' 2 /"#8("6($C 6)9! 1#90"C 4A5#"< >&:#< 9$,8< G /,E4"/68, 64"%$ 9&(' 7"%"28< !"94E /"0E(84' 2"2&0 (& :"7#E, S4"% (E0"7-) 2): (& 294)4' E> >&:#E!`` Wrap him in a shroud of softest snow; in it I’ll shelter the old man like a babe… Sleep, my friend, happy peasant, summer has come, and all is in bloom! Over the cornfields the sun smiles and the sickles swing, The song rises up, and the doves are flying…” The Field Marshal The battle thunders, the armor flashes, the bronze cannons roar, the regiments charge, the horses rush by, and red rivers of blood flow. Noon burns fiercely, the people fight on; when the sun has sunk low, the battle is fiercer; the sunset pales, yet the enemies fight on more fiercely and more savagely. And night has fallen on the field of battle. In the gloom the legions disperse… All is quiet, and in the darkness of night groans rise up to the sky. Then, illuminated by the light of the moon, on his battle horse, his while bones gleaming in the pale light, comes the figure of Death; and in the quiet, listening to the groans and prayers, and filled with pride and satisfaction, like a warrior chief, he circles round the place of battle. Up to the hill he climbs, and looks about, stops, and gives a smile… And over the battle plain The voice of doom is heard: “The fight is ended! I have conquered all! Before me you have yielded, warriors all! Life set you at odds, but I joined you in peace! Rise up together for the roll call of death! March past in a solemn file, I wish to record my troops; then later you may lay your bones in the earth, and sweetly rest from life’s toils in the earth! Year after year will pass by unheeded, and amongst men all memory of you will disappear. But I’ll not forget, and over your bones I’ll hold a loud feast at midnight’s hour! In the dance’s heavy tread upon the damp earth I’ll stamp, so your bones will never escape the shelter of the grave, and you will never rise from the earth again!” Gerald Finzi Earth and Air and Rain, Op. 15 Texts by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) The Clock of the Years "A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up." And the Spirit said, "I can make the clock of the years go backward, But am loth to stop it where you will." And I cried, "Agreed To that. Proceed: It's better than dead!" He answered, "Peace;” And called her up—as last before me; Then younger, younger she grew, to the year I first had known Her woman-grown, And I cried, "Cease!— "Thus far is good— It is enough—let her stay thus always!" But alas for me—He shook his head: No stop was there; And she waned child-fair, And to babyhood. Still less in mien To my great sorrow became she slowly, And smalled till she was nought at all In his checkless griff; And it was as if She had never been. "Better" I plained, "She were dead as before! The memory of her Had lived in me; but it cannot now!" And coldly his voice: "It was your choice To mar the ordained." The Phantom Queer are the ways of a man I know: He comes and stands In a careworn craze, And looks at the sands And the seaward haze With moveless hands And face and gaze, Then turns to go… And what does he see when he gazes so? They say he sees as an instant thing More clear than to-day, A sweet soft scene That once was in play By that briny green; Yes, notes alway Warm, real, and keen, What his back years bring— A phantom of his own figuring. Of this vision of his they might say more: Not only there Does he see this sight, But everywhere In his brain–day, night, As if on the air It were drawn rose bright— Yea, far from that shore Does he carry this vision of heretofore: A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, He withers daily, Time touches her not, But she still rides gaily In his rapt thought On that shagged and shaly Atlantic spot, And as when first eyed Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide. To Lizbie Browne Dear Lizbie Browne, Where are you now? In sun, in rain?— Or is your brow Past joy, past pain, Dear Lizbie Browne? Sweet Lizbie Browne, How you could smile, How you could sing!— How archly wile In glance-giving, Sweet Lizbie Browne! And, Lizbie Browne, Who else had hair Bay-red as yours, Or flesh so fair Bred out of doors, Sweet Lizbie Browne? When, Lizbie Browne, You had just begun To be endeared By stealth to one, You disappeared My Lizbie Browne! Ay, Lizbie Browne, So swift your life, And mine so slow, You were a wife Ere I could show Love, Lizbie Browne. Still, Lizbie Browne, You won, they said, The best of men When you were wed… Where went you then, O Lizbie Browne? Dear Lizbie Browne, I should have thought, "Girls ripen fast" And coaxed and caught You ere you passed, Dear Lizbie Browne! But, Lizbie Browne, I let you slip; Shaped not a sign; Touched never your lip With lip of mine, Lost Lizbie Browne! So, Lizbie Browne, When on a day Men speak of me As not, you'll say, "And who was he?"— Yes, Lizbie Browne. In a Churchyard (Song of the Yew Tree) "It is sad that so many of worth, Still in the flesh" soughed the yew, "Misjudge their lot whom kindly earth Secludes from view. "They ride their diurnal round Each day-span's sum of hours In peerless ease, without jolt or bound Or ache like ours. "If the living could but hear What is heard by my roots as they creep Round the restful flock, and the things said there, No one would weep." "'Now set among the wise,' They say: 'Enlarged in scope, That no God trumpet us to rise We truly hope.’” I listened to his strange tale In the mood that stillness brings, And I grew to accept as the day wore pale That view of things. Proud Songsters The thrushes sing as the sun is going, And the finches whistle in ones and pairs, And as it gets dark loud nightingales In bushes Pipe, as they can when April wears, As if all Time were theirs. These are brand new birds of twelvemonths’ growing, Which a year ago, or less than twain, No finches were, nor nightingales, Nor thrushes, But only particles of grain, And earth, and air, and rain.
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