Kristen M. Gobetz
soprano
Ināra Zandmane, piano
Graduate Recital
Sunday, April 15, 2012
5:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Building
Program
Six Elizabethan Songs (1958) Dominick Argento
Spring (b.1927)
Sleep
Diaphenia
Hymn
Eichendorff Lieder (1880-1888) Hugo Wolf
Verschwiegene Liebe (1860-1903)
Der Freund
Die Nacht
Das Ständchen
Heimweh
Intermission
Proses Lyriques (1893) Claude Debussy
De Rêve (1862-1918)
De Grève
De Fleurs
De Soir
Cuatro Madrigales Amatorios (1948) Joaquín Rodrigo
¿ Con qué la lavaré? (1901-1999)
Vos me matásteis
¿ De dónde venís, amore?
De los álamos vengo, madre
How Can I Keep From Singing Robert Lowry
(1826-1899)
arr. Sally DeFord and James Loynes
Kristen M. Gobetz is a student of Professor Clara O’Brien
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Dominick Argento:
Six Elizabethan Songs
Spring
Text by Thomas Nash (1567-1601)
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s
pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance
in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do
sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses
gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherd pipes
all day,
And we hear ay birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss
our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning
sit,
In every street, these tunes our ears do
greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!
Sleep
Text by Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my anguish and restore thy light;
With dark forgetting of my care return.
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn
Without the torment of the night’s untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.
Diaphenia
Text by Henry Constable (1562-1613)
Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,
Heigh ho, how I do love thee!
I do love thee as my lambs
Are beloved of their dams:
How blesst were I if thou would’st prove
me.
Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets incloses,
Fair sweet, how I do love thee!
I do love thee as each flower
loves the sun's life-giving power,
For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia like to all things blessed
When all thy praises are expressed
Dear joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their careful king:
Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
Hymn
Text by Ben Jonson (1573-1637)
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!
Hugo Wolf:
Eichendorff Lieder
Text by Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Verschviegene Liebe
Über Wipfel und Saaten
in den Glanz hinein,
wer mag sie erraten,
wer holte sie ein?
Gedanken sich wiegen,
die Nacht ist verschwiegen,
Gedanken sind frei.
Errät es nur eine,
wer an sie gedacht,
beim Rauschen der Haine,
wenn niemand mehr wacht,
als die Wolken, die fliegen,
mein Lieb ist verschwiegen
und schön wie die Nacht.
Der Freund
Wer auf den Wogen schliefe,
ein sanft gewiegtes Kind,
kennt nicht des Lebens Tiefe,
vor süßem Träumen blind.
Doch wen die Stürme fassen
zu wildem Tanz und Fest,
wen hoch auf dunklen Straßen
die falsche Welt verläßt:
Der lernt sich wacker rühren,
durch Nacht und Klippen hin
lernt der das Steuer führen
mit sichrem, ernstem Sinn.
Der ist von echtem Kerne,
erprobt zu Lust und Pein,
der glaubt an Gott und Sterne,
der soll mein Schiffmann sein!
Die Nacht
Nacht ist wie ein stilles Meer,
Lust und Leid und Liebesklagen
kommen so verworren her
in dem linden Wellenschlagen.
Wünsche wie die Wolken sind,
schiffen durch die stillen Räume,
wer erkennt im lauen Wind,
ob's Gedanken oder Träume?
Schließ' ich nun auch Herz und Mund,
die so gern den Sternen klagen;
leise doch im Herzensgrund
bleibt das linde Wellenschlagen.
Eichendorff Songs
Translations taken from Eric Sams
Silent love
Over the treetops and the standing corn,
away into the brightness-who
can guess their secrets,
who could overtake them?
thoughts go floating;
the night is silent,
thoughts fly free.
If only she could guess
who has thought of her
amid the rustling of the groves
when no one else is awake
but the flying clouds;
my love is as silent
and beautiful as the night.
The friend
Whoever sleeps on the waves,
a softly cradled child,
knows not the depths of life,
being blinded by sweet dreaming.
But whoever is called by tempests
to wild dance and revel,
and is left high on the dark seaways
by the deceitful world-he
learns to bear himself bravely
and to steer safely,
through night and reefs
with a staunch and earnest heart.
He is a man of true grain,
tested in joy and grief;
he believes in God and the stars,
and he shall be my helmsman.
Night
Night is like a silent sea.
Joy and pain and love-lamenting
merge so confusedly together
in the gentle pulsing of its waves.
Wishes are like the clouds
that sail thrugh the silent space;
who can tell in the gentle air
if they are thoughts or dreams?
Though I now close my heart and my lips
which so love to lament to the stars,
yet in the depths of my heart
their remains that gentle pulsing of waves.
Das Ständchen
Auf die Dächer zwischen blassen
Wolken schaut der Mond herfür,
ein Student dort auf den Gassen
singt vor seiner Liebsten Tür.
Und die Brunnen rauschen wieder
durch die stille Einsamkeit
und der Wald vom Berge nieder,
wie in alter, schöner Zeit.
So in meinen jungen Tagen
hab’ ich manche Sommernacht
auch die Laute hier geschlagen
und manch lust'ges Lied erdacht.
Aber von der stillen Schwelle
trugen sie mein Lieb zur Ruh,
und du, fröhlicher Geselle,
Singe, sing nur immer zu!
Heimweh
Wer in die Fremde will wandern,
Der muß mit der Liebsten gehn,
Es jubeln und lassen die andern
Den Fremden alleine stehn.
Was wisset ihr, dunkle Wipfel,
Von der alten, schönen Zeit?
Ach, die Heimat hinter den Gipfeln,
Wie liegt sie von hier so weit?
Am liebsten betracht' ich die Sterne,
Die schienen, wie ich ging zu ihr,
Die Nachtigall hör' ich so gerne,
Sie sang vor der Liebsten Tür.
Der Morgen, das ist meine Freude!
Da steig’ ich in stiller Stund’
auf den höchsten Berg in die Weite,
grüss dich, Deutschland, aus
Herzensgrund!
Claude Debussy:
Proses Lyriques
Text by Claude Debussy (1862-1918)
De rêve
La nuit a des douceurs de femme
Et les vieux arbres sous la lune
d'or, Songent!
A celle qui vient de passer la tête
emperlée,
Maintenant navrée, à jamais navrée,
Ils n'ont pas su lui faire signe...
Toutes! elles ont passé:
The serenade
Over the rooftops between pale clouds
the moon shines out;
there on the street a student is
singing at his beloved’s door.
And the springs splash again
through the silent solitude,
and the wood rustles down from the
hillside,
just as in the lovely times of long ago.
So in my young days
on many a summer night
I have played the lute here,
and composed many a glad song.
But from the quiet threshold
they carried my love to rest.
Pray you, my blithe friend,
sing, just sing on and on.
Longing for home
Whoever wants to travel in foreign lands
should go along with his loved one;
for there people laugh and allow
the stranger to stand alone.
What do you know, dark tree-tops,
of the old, dear days?
Oh, my homeland behind the mountains,
how far away from here it lies.
My greatest joy is to watch the stars,
they shone as I made my way to her;
I love to hear the nightingale,
which sang at my loved one’s door.
The morning, that is my joy!
Then I climb in the quiet hour
on the highest peak for miles around
and greet you, Germany,
from the depths of my heart!
Lyric Prose
Translations taken from Pierre Bernac
Of Dreams
The night has the sweetness of woman
and the old trees under the golden moon
are dreaming!
To her who has just passed with head
bepearled,
now heartbroken, forever heartbroken,
they did not know how to give her a sign...
All! they have passed:
les Frêles, les Folles,
Semant leur rire au gazon grêle,
aux brises frôleuses la caresse charmeuse
des hanches fleurissantes.
Hélas! de tout ceci, plus rien qu'un blanc
frisson...
Les vieux arbres sous la lune d'or
pleurent leurs belles feuilles d'or!
Nul ne leur dédiera plus
la fierté des casques d'or
Maintenant ternis, à jamais ternis.
Les chevaliers sont morts
Sur le chemin du Grâal!
La nuit a des douceurs de femme,
Des mains semblent frôler les âmes,
mains si folles, si frêles,
Au temps où les épées chantaient pour
Elles!
D'étranges soupirs s'élèvent sous les arbres.
Mon âme c'est du rêve ancien qui t'étreint!
De grève
Sur la mer les crépuscules tombent,
Soie blanche effilée.
Les vagues comme de petites folles
Jasent, petites filles sortant de l'école,
Parmi les froufrous de leur robe,
Soie verte irisée!
Les nuages, graves voyageurs,
Se concertent sur le prochain orage,
Et c'est un fond vraiment trop grave
A cette anglaise aquarelle.
Les vagues, les petites vagues,
Ne savent plus où se mettre,
Car voici la méchante averse,
Froufrous de jupes envolées,
Soie verte affolée.
Mais la lune, compatissante à tous!
Vient apaiser ce gris conflit.
Et caresse lentement ses petites amies
Qui s'offrent, comme lèvres aimantes
A ce tiède et blanc baiser.
Puis, plus rien...
Plus que les cloches attardées des flottantes
églises!
Angelus des vagues,
Soie blanche apaisée!
De fleurs
Dans l'ennui si désolément vert
de la serre de douleur,
Les fleurs enlacent mon coeur
de leurs tiges méchantes.
Ah! quand reviendront autour de ma tête
Les chères mains si tendrement
désenlaceuses?
Les grands Iris violets
Violèrent méchamment tes yeux
the Frail Ones, the Foolish Ones,
casting their laughter to the thin grass,
and to the fondling breezes the bewitching
caress of hips in the fullness of their beauty.
Alas! all of this, nothing is left but a pale
tremor...
The old trees under the golden moon
are weeping their beautiful golden leaves!
None will again dedicate to them
the pride of the golden helmets
now tarnished, tarnished forever.
The knights are dead
on the way to the Grail!
The night has the sweetness of woman,
hands seem to caress the souls.
hands so foolish, so frail,
in the days when the swords sang for them!
Strange sighs rise under the trees.
My soul you are gripped by a dream of
olden times!
Of The Shore
Over the sea twilight falls,
frayed white silk.
The waves like little mad things
chatter, little girls coming out of school,
amid the rustling of their dresses,
iridescent green silk!
The clouds, grave travelers.
hold counsel about the next storm,
and it is a background really too solemn
for this english water-colour.
The waves, the little waves,
no longer know where to go,
for here is the annoying downpour,
rustling of flying skirts,
panic-stricken green silk.
But the moon, compassionate towards all!
comes to pacify this grey conflict.
And slowly caresses his little friends
who offer themselves like loving lips
to this warm, white kiss.
Then, nothing more...
Only the belated bells of the floating
churches!
Angelus of the waves,
calmed white silk!
Of Flowers
In the tedium so desolately green
of the hothouse of grief.
the flowers entwine my heart
with their wicked stems.
Ah! when will return around my head
the dear hands so tenderly disentwining?
The big violet irises
wickedly ravished your eyes
En semblant les refléter,
Eux, qui furent l'eau du songe
où plongèrent mes rêves si doucement,
enclos en leur couleur;
Et les lys, blancs jets d'eau de pistils
embaumés,
Ont perdu leur grâce blanche
Et ne sont plus que pauvres malades sans
soleil!
Soleil! ami des fleurs mauvaises,
Tueur de rêves! Tueur d'illusions!
Ce pain béni des âmes misérables!
Venez! Venez! Les mains salvatrices!
Brisez les vitres de mensonge,
Brisez les vitres de maléfice,
Mon âme meurt de trop de soleil!
Mirages! Plus ne refleurira la joie de mes
yeux
Et mes mains sont lasses de prier,
Mes yeux sont las de pleurer!
Eternellement ce bruit fou
des pétales noirs de l'ennui
Tombant goutte à goutte sur ma tête
Dans le vert de la serre de douleur!
De soir
Dimanche sur les villes,
Dimanche dans les coeurs!
Dimanche chez let petites filles
chantant d'une voix informée
des rondes obstinées où de bonnes Tours
n'en ont plus que pour quelques jours!
Dimanche, les gares sont folles!
Tout le monde appareille
pour des banlieues d'aventure
en se disant adieu
avec des gestes éperdus!
Dimanche, les trains vont vite,
dévorés par d'insatiables tunnels;
Et les bons signaux des routes
échangent d'un oeil unique
des impressions toutes mécaniques.
Dimanche, dans le bleu de mes rêves,
où mes pensées tristes
de feux d'artifices manqués
Ne veulent plus quitter
le deuil de vieux Dimanches trépassés.
Et la nuit, à pas de velours,
vient endormir le beau ciel fatigué,
et c'est Dimanche dans les avenues
d'étoiles;
la Vierge or sur argent
laisse tomber les fleurs de sommeil!
Vite, les petits anges,
dépassez les hirondelles
afin de vous coucher
forts d'absolution!
Prenez pitié des villes,
Prenez pitié des coeurs,
Vous, la Vierge or sur argent!
while seeming to reflect them,
they, who were the water of the dream
into which my dreams plunged
so sweetly enclosed in their colour;
and the lilies, white fountains of fragrant
pistils,
have lost their white grace
and are no more than poor sick things
without sun!
Sun! friend of evil flowers,
killer of dreams! Killer of illusions!
This consecrated bread of wretched souls!
Come! Come! Redeeming hands!
Break the window-panes of falsehood,
Break the window-panes of malefice,
my soul dies of too much sun!
Mirages! the joy of my eyes will not flower
again
and my hands are weary of praying,
my eyes are weary of weeping!
Eternally this maddening sound
of the black petals of tedium
falling drop by drop on my head
in the green of the hothouse of grief!
Of Evening
Sunday in the towns,
Sunday in the hearts!
Sunday for the little girls
singing with immature voices
persistent rounds where good Towers
will last only for a few days!
Sunday, the stations are frenzied!
Everyone sets off
for the suburbs of adventure
Saying good-bye
with distracted gestures!
Sunday, the trains go quickly,
devoured by insatiable tunnels;
and the good signals of the tracks
interchange with a single eye
purely mechanical impressions.
Sunday, in the blue of my dreams,
where my sad thoughts
of abortive fireworks
will no longer cease to mourn
for old Sundays long departed.
And the night, with velvet steps,
sends the beautiful, tired sky to sleep,
and it is Sunday in the avenues of stars;
the Virgin, gold upon silver,
lets the flowers of sleep fall!
Quickly, the little angels,
overtake the swallows
to put you to bed,
blessed by absolution!
Take pity on the towns,
take pity on the hearts,
You, Virgin gold upon silver!
Joaquín Rodrigo:
Cuatro madrigales amatorios
Text by Anonymous
¿ Con qué la lavaré?
¿Con qué la lavaré?
la tez de la mi cara?
¿Con qué la lavaré,
que vivo mal penada?
Lávanse las casadas
con agua de limones.
Lávome yo, cuitada,
con penas y dolores.
Vos me matásteis
Vos me matásteis,
niña en cabello,
vos me habéis muerto.
Riberas de un río,
ví moza vírgen,
niña en cabello,
vos me habéis muerto.
¿ De dónde venís, amore?
¿De dónde venís, amore?
bien sé yo de dónde.
¿De dónde venís, amigo?
Fuere yo testigo. Ah!
De los álamos vengo, madre
De los álamos vengo, madre,
de ver cómo los menea el aire.
De los álamos de Sevilla,
de ver a mi linda amiga.
Robert Lowry:
How Can I Keep From Singing
Text Attributed to Pauline T. (dates
unknown)
My life flows on in endless song,!
above earth’s lamentation,!
I hear the sweet though far off hymn!
That hails a new creation,!
Through all the tumult and the strife,!
I hear the music ringing,!
It finds an echo in my soul,!
How can I keep from singing?!
Four Madrigales of Love
Translations by Suzanne Rhodes Draayer
With What Shall I Wash?
With what shall I wash?
the skin of my face?
With what shall I wash?
that I live badly punished?
They wash the married women
with water from lemons.
I wash myself, anguished,
with grief and sorrow.
You Killed Me
You killed me,
girl with the hair,
you have killed me.
At the river’s edge,
I saw a virgin,
girl with the hair,
you have killed me.
From where do you come, love?
From where do you come, love?
I know well from where.
From where do you come, friend?
I have been a witness. Ah!
From the poplars I come, mother
From the poplars I come, mother,
to see how they move in the air.
From the poplars of Seville,
to see my pretty girlfriend.
What though my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth,
What though the darkness gather round?
Songs in the night He giveth,
No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that refuge clinging,
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
How can I keep from singing?
I lift mine eyes, the cloud grows thin,
I see the blue above it,
And day by day this pathway smoothes,
Since first I learned to love it,
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing,
All things are mine since I am His,
How can I keep from singing?
