Whither, O whither did’st thou fly
When I did grieve thine holy Eye?
When thou did’st mourn to see me lost,
And all thy Care and Councels crost.
O do not grieve where e’er thou art!
Thy grief is an undoing smart.
Which doth not only pain, but break
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:
But (O!) thy grief, thy grief doth kill.                                                                                                  
Henry Vaughan (1622-1695)

                                                                                              From Thalia Rediviva, 1678

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago!

"Je cherche un peu partout
Dans l’espoir de trouver
Quelqu’un qui connaît bien la mer et son halein’ salée
Qui pourrait bien me dire
Pour quoi j’ai dans la peau
Le bruit des vagues sur la plage
Le chant liquide et pur de l’eau.

Parlez-moi de la mer
Racontez moi son histoire
Dites-moi, parlez-moi
Pour que je sois marin pour que je sois marin Parlez-moi de la mer."

excerpt from Parlez-Moi by France Levasseur-Ouimet arr. Allan Bevan
© Cypress Choral Music 2012

Marie Stultz of Spectrum Music, in Lexington, MA wrote this about Parlez-Moi in the Winter 2012-13 Choral Room:


Parlez-moi, by France Lavasseur-Ouimet, arr. Allan Bevan, French text, Cypress, CP 1217, SSA & piano. Difficulty rating 3-4. $2.25
Text Source: France Levasseur-Ouimet
Period and Nationality: 21st C. French Canadian
Style: Part-Song
Special Music Characteristics: This charming melody and text by Lavasseur-Ouimet resembles a folk song. Bevan has arranged the melody in two and three parts over a florid piano accompaniment in the key of D Major. A good introduction to French diction, the subtle dynamics will develop the choir's artistry. The piece concludes on a dramatic double forte on a unison d2 that will ring through the room.

There, in that other world what waits for me?
What shall I find after that other birth?
No stormy, tossing, foaming, smiling sea,
But a new earth.

No sun to mark the changing of the days,
No slow, soft falling of the alternate night,
No moon, no star, no light upon my ways,
Only the light.

No gray cathedral, wide and wondrous fair,
That I may tread where all my fathers trod.
Nay, nay, my soul, no house of God is there,
But only God.

                                               Mary Coleridge

Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.
Hark! now I hear them: ding, dong, bell.

The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

 Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

 Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

 This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.

O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone and all the roses falling,
Its you, its you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back, when summers in the meadow,
Or when the valleys hushed and white with snow,
It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
O Danny boy, O Danny boy, I love you so.

But when ye come and all the flowers are dying,
And I am dead as dead I well may be.
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying.
And kneel and say an 'Ave' there for me.

And I shall hear though soft you tread above me,
For all my grave will warmer sweeter be.
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth:

Awake the dawn that sleeps in heav'n: let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honied dew that cometh on waking day.

O radiant morning, salute the sun,
Rouz'd like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin'd feet, appear upon our hills.

     William Blake, from Poetical Sketches, 1783

"Blake's poem O Holy Virgin receives a powerful setting by Canadian composer Allan Bevan. In the predominantly secular text, the poet bids the holy virgin to invoke dawn. A rich harmonic palette accompanies potent textual images. A slow, steady pulse and sustained, ascending vocal lines create the character of a solemn procession. Ranges and tessituras are comfortable with the exception of an optional b flat 2. The two primary voices occasionally cross and frequently sing at the interval of a second, requiring independence on the part of the singers. With a key signature of E flat minor, tenths in the right hand, and duple versus triple rhythms, the piano part is out of the reach of most student players. A worthy text and beautiful setting make this piece appropriate for any treble chorus."

Harp of wild and dreamlike strain,
When I touch thy strings,
Why dost thou repeat again
Long-forgotten things?

Harp, in other earlier days,
I could sing to thee;
And not one of all my lays
Vexed my memory.

But now, if I awake a note
That gave me joy before,
Sounds of sorrow from thee float,
Changing evermore.

Yet, still steeped in memory's dyes,
They come sailing on,
Darkening all my summer skies,
Shutting out my sun.

                                                   -Emily Jane Bronte

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake,
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,
A weeping willow in a lake;
I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped
For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.

The Eclipse

Whither, O whither did’st thou fly 
When I did grieve thine holy Eye?
When thou did’st mourn to see me lost, 
And all thy Care and Councels crost.
O do not grieve where e’er thou art!

Thy grief is an undoing smart. 
Which doth not only pain, but break
My heart, and makes me blush to speak. 
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:
But (O!) thy grief, thy grief doth kill.

God made my mother on an April day,
From sorrow and the mist along the sea,
Lost birds' and wanderers' song and ocean spray,
And the moon loved her wandering jealously.

Beside the ocean's din she combed her hair,
Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,
Before her earthly lover found her there
And kissed away the music from her lips.

She came unto the hills and saw the change
That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.
But there was not a grief that she deemed strange,
For there is that in her which always mourns.

Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave
Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.
I bless the God Who such a mother gave
This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light, That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see;
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
                            Sir Philip Sidney from Certaine Sonnets, 1582

Never weather-beaten saile more willing bent to shore,
Never tyred pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied spright now longs to flye, out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.  
E’er-blooming are the joys of Heaven’s high Paradice,
Cold age deafes not there our ears, nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines, whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee.              

                                                 Thomas Campion

Singers to come, what thoughts will start
To song? What words of yours be sent
Through man's soul, and with earth be blent?
These worlds of nature and the heart
Await you like an instrument.

Who knows what musical flocks of words
Upon these pine-tree tops will light,
And crown these towers in circling flight,
And cross these seas like summer birds,
And give a voice to the day and night?

Something of you already is ours;
Some mystic part of you belongs
To us whose dreams your future throngs,
Who look on hills, and trees, and flowers,
Which will mean so much in your songs.

from A Poet's Fancies IX

My heart shall be thy garden.
Come, my own,
   Into thy garden; thine be happy hours
   Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,
From root to crowning petal thine alone.

Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown
   Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.
   But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine
   To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,
      Sing one song only from our alder-trees,

My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,
   Flit to the silent world and other summers,
      With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.