…once again, rain! And, a concept in which one so often engages when one writes music. This concept is that of a “pickup beat.” Continue reading
By any song, in night, that dost thou sing,
If with thy lips shalt sing, my dearest one;
Or make to sing my soul, thy touch doth bring;
Or strong thine arms surroundeth, sing my heart.
And when doth sing thy smile, to heal, to rest;
And sing to fret the tyme away, undone
By song; yet still the finer am I blest
By music, by thy words, and by thine art.
But only thus, thy song shouldst bid me sleep–
Thy song, my shelter, sweep away the sun,
I beg of thee thy promised song, and weep
That shouldst thou hold mee fast, and ne’r us part
Until thy quiet fight–when hast thou won–
Requite the day, that thou expressed: Depart!
Throughout, within, the night’s surrounding warm,
Distraught of daylight’s merciless advance:
One hand to touch, though trembling, my arm;
One smile’s joy, one smile’s graceful dance;
One kiss sustains, one kiss throughout the night;
One touch through daylight’s cruel and bitter sting;
One tear, upon one cheek, what solace might
It bring, that touch and smile and kiss would sing?
What voice? What dulcet tone, such golden song
Should sing? What arm to lay me down to sleep?
What sweet surround my head to hold? So long
A Night I need–and warm–a bed to keep
Me safe, perhaps, if substance I may bring;
And heal–perhaps, or not–if love I sing.
What gilded fire hast thou within me lit
When once thou hast so deep thy fingers prest;
What hale, such perfection doth acquit
When light-acquainted fire doth bestow?
From lightest dost thou brush, to deepest touch;
For verge thou mee as though of thine possessed:
From out thy mastery, ownership as such
For mee, this fiery lightning set aglow.
May’ once, an I escape thee, light as well;
Might fire as hast thou lit be thus expressed;
May’ hearty lightning mine, and flame impel;
Might I, thine elements alight, thee know?
Can I, thy lightning’s fyre, reflect as blest;
Come I, as thy desire shall overflow?
An encore of sorts,
A sequence is at an end
But it demandeth.
So calleth now this
To occupy. What soul this?
What hath I then wrought?
O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.
If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.
So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.
If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.