Rebecca Anne Perkinson
soprano
Nancy Davis, piano
assisted by:
David Allen, clarinet
Graduate Recital
Saturday, March 25, 2006
7:30 pm
Recital Hall, School of Music
Program
Der Hirt auf dem Felsen, Op. 129, d. 965 Franz Schubert
(1797-1828)
Mignon Lieder Hugo Wolf
Mignon II: Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (1860-1903)
Mignon III: So lasst mich scheinen
Mignon: Kennst du das Land
Intermission
Ariettes oubliées Claude Debussy
C’est l’extase langoureuse (1862-1918)
Il pleure dans mon coeur
L’ombre des arbres
Chevaux de bois
Green
Spleen
Mi ciamano Mimi from La Bohème Giacomo Puccini
(1856-1924)
Jabberwocky Lee Hoiby
The Lamb (b. 1926)
Lady of the Harbor
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
_____
The hall is equipped with a listening assistance system.
Patrons needing such assistance should contact an usher in the lobby.
Franz Schubert:
Der Hirt auf dem Felsen (1828)
Text by Wilhelm Müller (1794-1827)
Wenn auf dem höchstern Fels ich steh’,
Ins tiefe Tal Hernieder seh’, und singe.
Fern aus dem tiefen dunklen Tal
Schwingt sich empor der Widerhall der Klüfte.
Je weiter meine Stimme dringt,
Je heller sie mir wieder klingt von unten.
Mein Liebchen wohnt so weit von mir,
Drum sehn’ ich mich so heiss nach ihr hinüber.
In tiefem Gram versehr ich mich,
Mir ist die Freude hin,
Auf Erden mir die Hoffnung wich,
Ich hier so einsam bin.
So sehnend klang im Wald das Lied,
So sehnend klang es durch die Nacht,
Die Herzen es zum Himmel zieht
Mit wunderbarer Macht.
Der Frühling will kommen,
Der Frühling, meine Freud’,
Nun mach’ ich mich fertig
Zum Wandern bereit.
Hugo Wolf:
Mignon Lieder (1888)
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-
1832)
Mignon II
Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt, weiss, was ich
leide!
Allein und abgetrennt von aller Freude,
Seh ich ans Firmament nach jener Seite.
Ach! der mich liebt und kennt ist in der Weite.
Es schindelt mir, es brennt mein Eingeweide.
Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt, weiss, was ich
leide!
The Shepherd on the Rock
When, on the highest rock I stand,
And look into the deep valley and sing.
Far up from the deep valley
The echoes of the gap rush upward.
The further that my voice penetrates,
The brighter it sounds rebounding from below
My sweetheart dwells so far from me,
I hotly long to be with her over there.
In misery I am consumed,
I have no use for joy.
On the earth hope has eluded me,
Here I am so lonesome.
So longingly did the song sound in the woods,
So longingly did the song sound through the
night,
All hearts are pulled to heaven with its
marvelous power.
The springtime is coming,
The springtime, my joy
Now I will make myself
Ready to wander.
Mignon Songs
Mignon II
Only those who know yearning can fathom
grief like mine!
Alone and sundered from all joy,
I scan the skies to the south.
Ah! He who loves and knows me is far away.
My senses reel, my inmost being burns.
Only those who know yearning can fathom
grief like mine!
Mignon III
So lasst mich scheinen, bis ich werde,
Zieht mir das weisse Kleid nicht aus!
Ich eile von der schönen Erde
Hinab in jenes feste Haus.
Dort ruh’ ich eine kleine Stille,
Dann öffnet sich der frische Blick;
Ich lasse dann die reine Hülle,
Den Gürtel und den Kranz zurück.
Und jene himmlischen Gestalten,
Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib,
Und keine Kleider, keine Falten umgeben den
verklärten Leib.
Zwar lebt’ ich ohne Sorg und Mühe,
doch fühlt’ ich tiefen Schmertz genung.
Vor Kummer altert’ ich su frühe;
Macht mich auf ewig wieder jung!
Mignon
Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunklen Laub die Goldoranged glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vow blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeersteht,
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin!
Möcht’ ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter ziehn.
Kennst du das Haus? auf Säulen ruht sein
Dach,
Es glänzt der Sall, es Schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin!
Möcht’ ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer ziehn.
Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg;
In Höhlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut;
Es stürzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut.
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin! dahin!
Geht unser Weg! O Vater, lass uns ziehn!
Mignon III
Let me seem to be an angel until I become one
Do non take my white dress away from me!
I am hastening away from this fair earth
To that long home.
There I shall rest awhile,
Then my eyes will open, renewed;
Then I shall leave behind this pure raiment,
The girdle and the garland.
And those heavenly forms,
They make no question of man or woman,
And no clothes, no folds trammel the
transfigured body.
True, I have lived without trouble and care,
But I felt deep pain enough.
I grew old with grief before my time;
Now let me be made forever young!
Do you know the land where the lemons
blossom,
Where oranges glow golden among the dark
leaves?
A soft wind breaths from the blue sky
The silent myrtle and the tall laurel stand there,
Do you know it?
There! There!
I long to go with you, o my beloved.
Do you know the house? Its roof rests on
pillars,
The hall shines, the room gleams.
And marble statues stand and look at me
“What have they done to you, you poor child?”
Do you know it?
There! There!
I long to go with you, o my protector.
Do you know the mountain and its cloudy
paths?
Where the mule seeks its way in the mist;
In caves the old brood of the dragons dwells,
The rock falls sheer and the torrent over it.
Do you know it?
There! There!
There lies our way, O father, let us go!
Claude Debussy:
Ariettes oubliées (1885-7, revised 1903)
Text by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
C’est l’extase langoureuse
C’est l’extase langoureuse,
C’est la fatigue amoureuse,
C’est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l’étreinte des brises,
C’est, vers les ramures grises,
Le choeur des petites voix.
O le frêle et frais murmure,
Cela gazouille et susurre!
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l’herbe agitée expire…
Tu dirais, sous l’eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.
Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante,
C’est la notre, n’est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s’exhale l’humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas?
Il pleure dans mon coeur
Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville,
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur?
O bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un coeur qui s’ennuie,
O le bruit de la pluie!
Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s’écoeure.
Quoi! nulle trahison?
Ce deuil est sons raison.
C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi,
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon coeur a tant de peine.
L’ombre des arbres
L’ombre des arbres dans la rivière embrumée
Meurt comme de la fumée,
Tandis qu’en l’air, parmi les ramures réelles
Se plaignent les tourterelles.
Forgotten Melodies
This is the languorous ecstasy
This is languorous ecstasy,
This is the fatigue of love,
This is all the trembling of the woods
In the embrace of the breezes,
It is, among the gray branches,
The choir of little voices.
O frail and fresh murmur,
It babbles and whispers!
It resembles the soft cry
That the stirring grass makes…
You would say it is, beneath the swirling water
The muffled movement of the pebbles.
The soul that mourns
In this quiet plaint,
It is ours, isn’t it?
Mine, say, and yours,
From which is breathed the humble antiphon
On this warm evening, so quietly?
There is weeping in my heart.
There is weeping in my heart
Just as the rain on the city,
What is this languor
That pierces my heart?
O soft sound of the rain
On the ground and on the roofs!
For a heart that is weary,
O the sound of the rain!
There is weeping without reason
In the heart that is dejected.
What! no treason?
This sorrow is without reason.
Truly the worst pain
Is not to know why,
Without love and without hatred,
My heart has so much pain.
The shadow of trees
The shadow of trees on the hazy river
Fades away like smoke,
While in the air, among the real branches,
The turtledoves lament.
Combien ô voyageur, ce paysage blême
Te mira blême toi-même,
Et que tristes pleuraient dans les hautes
feuillées
Tes espérances noyées.
Chevaux de bois
Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois,
Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours,
Tournez souvent et tournez toujours,
Tournez, tournez au son des hautbois.
L’enfant tout rouge et la mère blanche,
Le gars en noir et la fille en rose,
L’une à la chose l’autre à la pose,
Chacun se paie un sou de dimanche.
Tournez, tournez chevaux de leur coeur,
Tandis qu’autour de tous vos tournois
Clignote l’oeil du filou sournois,
Tournez au son du piston vainqueur!
C’est étonnant comme ça vous soûle
D’aller ainsi dans ce cirque bête!
Rien dans le ventre et mal dans la tête
Du mal en masse et du bien en foule.
Tournez, dadas, sans qu’il soit besoin
D’user jamais de nuls éperons,
Pour commander à vos galops ronds,
Tournez, tournez, sans espoir de foin.
Et dépêchez chevaux de leur âme,
Déjà voici qui sonne à la soupe
La nuit qui tombe et chasse la troupe
De gais buveurs que leur soif affame.
Tournez, tournez, le ciel en velours
D’astres en or se vêt lentement.
L’église tinte un glas tristement.
Tournez au son joyeux des tambours!
Tournez.
Green
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des
branches,
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour
vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains
blanches,
Et qu’à vos yeux si beaux l’humble présent soir
doux.
J’arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
How much, O traveler, this pallid landscape
Did mirror your own pallid self,
And how sadly among the high foliage
Did your drowned hopes weep!
Wooden horses
Turn, turn good wooden horses,
Turn a hundred times, turn a thousand times,
Turn often and turn forever,
Turn, turn to the sound of the oboes.
The red-faced child and the pale mother,
The fellow in black and the girl in pink,
One striking off and the other striking poses,
Each getting his Sunday penny’s value.
Turn, turn, horses of their hearts,
While all about your turning
Twinkles the eye of the sly pickpocket,
Turn to the sound of the splendid cornet!
It is amazing how that does drunken you
Turning around in the giddy circus!
The stomach empty and the head spinning
Masses of good and bad aplenty.
Turn, horses, with no need
For using spurs,
To control your round gallops,
Turn, turn, with no hope of fodder.
And hurry, horses of their souls,
Already the supper bell is sounding
Night falls and cases away the troupe
Of merry drinkers made eager by their thirst.
Turn, turn! The velvet sky
With golden stars slowly adorns itself.
The church tolls a knell sadly.
Turn to the joyful sound of the drums!
Turn.
Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches.
And here too is my heart that beats only for
you.
Do not rend it with your two white hands.
And let the humble gift find favor in your
beautiful eyes.
I come to you still covered with the dew
That the morning wind has just frozen on my
brow.
Souffrez que ma fatigue, à vos pieds reposée,
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.
Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers ;
Laissez-la s’apaisez de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.
Spleen
Les roses étaient toutes rouges,
Et les lierres étaient tout noirs.
Chère, pour peu que tu te bouges,
Renaissant tout mes désespoirs.
Le ciel était trop bleu, trop tendre,
La mer trop verte et l’air trop doux.
Je crains toujours, —ce qu’est d’attendre!—
Quelque fuite atroce de vous.
Du houx à la feuille vernie
Et du luisant buis je suis las,
Et de la campagne infinie
Et de tout, fors de vous, hélas!
Giacomo Puccini:
Mi chiamano Mimì, from La Bohème (1896)
Text by Giuseppe Giacosa (1847-1906) and
Luigi Illica (1857-1919)
Si. Mi chiamano Mimì,
ma il mio nome è Lucia.
La storia mia è breve :
A tela o a seta
ricamo in casa e fuori…
Son tranquilla e lieta
ed è mio svago far gigli e rose.
Mi piaccion quelle cose
che han sì dolce malìa,
che parlano d’amor, di primavera,
di sogni e d chimere,
quelle cose che han nome poesia...
Lei m’intende?
Mi chiamano Mimì.
Il perchè non so.
Sola mi fo il pranso da me stessa.
Non vado sempre a messa
ma prego assai il Signor.
Vivo sola, soletta,
là in una bianca cameretta ;
guardo sui tetti e in cielo.
Ma quando vien lo sgelo
il primo sole è mio…
il primo baccio dell’aprile è mio !
Let my fatigue, laid to rest at your feet,
Dream of the dear moments that will refresh it.
On your young breast, ;et my head roll
Still resounding with your last kisses;
Let it rest from that good storm,
And let me sleep a little as you too sleep.
The roses were completely red,
And the ivy was all black.
Dear, even by your slightest stir,
All my despair is reborn.
The sky was too blue, too tender,
The sea too green and the air too mild.
I fear always,—how it is to be expected!—
Some hateful flight by you away from me.
Of the holly and its lustrous leaf
And of the shiny boxwood I am weary,
And of the vast countryside
And of everything, except you, alas!
They call me Mimi, from La Bohème
Yes, they call me Mimi,
but my name is Lucia.
My story is brief:
On linen or on silk
I do embroidery at home and outside.
I am quite and cheerful,
and my hobby is making lilies and roses.
Those things give me pleasure
which have so much sweet charm,
which speak of love of springtimes,
which speak of dreams and of fantasies…
those things which are called poetry,
Do you understand me?
They call me Mimi.
Why, I don’t know.
Alone, I make meals at home by myself.
I do not always go to mass
but I pray a great deal to the Lord.
I live alone—all alone—
there, in a clean little room;
I look out on the rooftops and the sky.
But when the spring thaw comes
the early sun is mine…
the first kiss of April is mine!
Germoglia in un vaso una rosa…
foglia a foglia la spio !
Così gentil il profumo d’un fior !
Ma i fior ch’io faccio, ahimè!
non hanno odore!
Altro di me non le saprei narrare.
Sono la sua vicina
che la vien fuori d’ora a importunare.
A rose blooms in a vase…
petal by petal I watch over it!
How delicate, the scent of a flower!
But the flowers that I make, alas,
do not have fragrance!
I would not know how to tell you anything else
about me.
I am your neighbor
who comes unexpectedly to interrupt you.
