MY SOUL’S BEEN ANCHORED IN THE LORD, arr. Moses Hogan
In the Lord, in the Lord.
My soul’s been anchored in the Lord.
Before I’d stay in hell one day,
I’d sing an’ pray myself away.
My soul’s been anchored in the Lord.
Goin’ shout an’ pray an’ never stop,
Until I reach the mountain top.
My soul’s been anchored in the Lord.
—Negro Spiritual
THE UNCERTAINTY OF A POET, from With a Poet’s Eye, Cary John Franklin
I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.
I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.
I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond,
A fond poet of ‘I am, I am’—
Very bananas,
Fond of ‘Am I bananas?
Am I?’—a very poet.
Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond? Am I very?
Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a ‘very.’
I am of very fond bananas.
Am I a poet?
—Wendy Cope (b. 1945)
BEAUTIFUL STAR, from Ringeltänze, Libby Larsen
Beautiful Star whom I love,
Wondrous Sun shining on me.
Beautiful Star I ask only to love,
None but Thee.
Refrain:
Beautiful Star, morning star
Of this holy day,
Gentle Star, light my nights,
Light of my life.
From the skies you came down, bright star
To save my soul.
Gracious starbeam, you soothe my heart
And make me whole. Refrain:
Constant Star, I want never to be
Far from your sight.
When the world darkens about me bright star,
I dwell in your light. Refrain:
—17th Century Carol
TO GOD (In Memoriam M.B.), Dominick Argento
Do with me, God! as Thou didst deal with John,
[Who writ that heavenly Revelation]
Let me (like him) first cracks of thunder hear;
Then let the Harps enchantment strike mine ear;
Here give me thorns; there, in thy Kingdom, set
Upon my head the golden coronet;
There give me day; but here my dreadful night:
My sackcloth here; but there my Stole of white.
—Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
GALA DEL DÍA, from Indianas, Carlos Guastavino
Sung in Spanish
I love the light of dawn because it kisses you
and returns you alive, alive and fanciful.
Straight ear of grain in the wind of midday,
I love the sun that guilds it, ripe and mine.
When the afternoon cries for its lost light,
I love the trill you pin over my life.
I love so much the night which is infinite
like your sweet, dark, tepid hour.
O, heart of night, day’s gala!
My life burns for your happiness.
—Arturo Vazquez (1888-1958)
¡OH, MI BELÉN!, from Carols and Lullabies, Conrad Susa
Sung in Spanish
Oh, my Bethlehem!
Your beloved hour has arrived!
The light you shine unceasingly
Like a beacon that guides us
On our way, night and day.
Oh, my Bethlehem!
—Traditional Biscayan carol
A FAREWELL TO ARMS, Richard Rodney Bennett
I. The helmet now an hive for bees becomes,
And hilts of swords may serve for spiders’ looms;
Sharp pikes may make
Teeth for a rake;
And the keen blade, the arch enemy of life,
Shall be degraded to a pruning knife.
The rustic spade
Which first was made
For honest agriculture, shall retake
Its primitive employment, and forsake
The rampires steep
And trenches deep.
Tame conies in our brazen guns shall breed,
Or gentle doves their young ones there shall feed.
In musket barrels
Mice shall raise quarrels
For their quarters. The ventriloquious drum
Like lawyers in vacations, shall be dumb.
Now all recruits
But those of fruits
Shall be forgot; and th’ unarmed soldier
Shall only boast of what he did whilere,
In chimneys’ ends
Among his friends.
—Ralph Knevet (1600-1671)
Cello Interlude
II. His golden locks time hath to silver turned.
O time too swift, o swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ‘gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain, youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth are flow’rs but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love are roots and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lovers’ sonnets turn to holy psalms.
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers which are age’s alms.
But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well,
Curst be the soul that thinks her any wrong.
Goddess, allow this aged man his right,
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
—George Peele (1556-1596)
BLESSED BE!, Melanie DeMore
Blessed Be!
Blest, Be, Blessed Be the Living Tree.
Blessed Be the Tree of Life
that grows within you and me.
Steady and true,
Rooted in love.
Shelter and peace
Below and above.
Sing to the sky,
Rise from the earth.
Seasons come round again,
Death to rebirth.
Blessed Be the Tree of Life
that grows within you and me.
—Melanie DeMore
EL HAMBO, Jaakko Mäntyjärvi
(This piece uses a text with nonsensical words.)
A HYMN TO THE VIRGIN, Benjamin Britten
Of one that is so fair and bright,
Velut maris stella, (like a star of the sea)
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella; (parent and virgin)
I cry to thee, thou see to me,
Lady, pray thy Son for me,
Tam pia, (So holy)
That I may come to thee,
Maria!
All this world was forlorn
Eva peccatrice, (Through Eve the sinner)
Till our Lord was born
De te genetrice. (From you, the begetter)
With ave it went away
Darkest night, and comes the day
Salutis; (Of salvation)
The well springeth out of thee.
Virtutis. (Of virtue)
Lady, flower of everything,
Rosa sine spina. (Rose without thorn)
Thou bare Jesu, Heaven’s King,
Gritia divina; (Through divine grace)
Of all thou bear’st the prize,
Lady, queen of paradies
Electa; (Chosen)
Maid mild, mother es Effecta. (Made a mother)
Effecta.
—Anonymous 14th century poem
KARIN BOYE’S EVENING PRAYER (AFTONBÖN), Egil Hovland
Now I lay me down in silence,
In this still and quiet hour.
Sorrow’s hold on me is fading ,
Clamoring voices lose their power.
Take this day which now is ended.
Let me rest until tomorrow,
For I know that you can finish
What I found of joy or sorrow.
All my harmful thoughts and actions,
Heal and make them new and wholesome.
Take my days and make them over.
Come, transform their dust to diamond.
Lift them up and bear them from me,
I will leave them in your keeping.
Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Let me rest as I am sleeping!
—Karin Boye (1900-1941), translated by Gracia Grindal
LEONARDO DREAMS OF HIS FLYING MACHINE, Eric Whitacre
Tormented by visions of flight and falling,
More wondrous and terrible each than the last,
Master Leonardo imagines an engine
To carry a man up into the sun…
And as he’s dreaming the heavens call him,
Softly whispering their siren-song:
“Leonardo, Leonardo, vieni à volare.” (“Leonardo, Leonardo, come fly.”)
L’uomo colle sua congiegniate e grandiale, (A man with wings large enough and duly connected)
Facciendo forza contro alla resistente aria. (might learn to overcome the resistance of the air.)
As the candles burn low he paces and writes,
Releasing purchased pigeons one by one by one
Into the golden Tuscan sunrise…
And as he dreams, again the calling,
The very air itself gives voice:
“Leonardo, Leonardo, vieni à volare.” (“Leonardo, Leonardo, come fly.”)
Vicina all’ elemento del fuoco…(Close to the sphere of elemental fire…)
Scratching quill on crumpled paper
Rete, canna, filo, carta. (Net, cane, thread, paper.)
Images of wing and frame and fabric fastened tightly
…sulla suprema sottile aria. (…in the highest and rarest atmosphere.)
As the midnight watchtower tolls,
Over rooftop, street and dome,
The triumph of a human being ascending
In the dreaming of a mortal man.
Leonardo steels himself,
Takes one last breath, and leaps…
“Leonardo vieni à volare! Leonardo, sognare!” (“Leonardo, come fly! Leonardo, dream!”)
—Charles Anthony Silvestri (b. 1965)
(Italian fragments taken from the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci)
MOST HOLY NIGHT, Carol Barnett
Most Holy Night, that still dost keep
The keys of all the doors of sleep,
To me when my tired eyelids close
Give thou repose.
And let the far lament of them
That chaunt the dead day’s requiem
Make in my ears, who wakeful lie,
Soft lullaby.
Let them that guard the sacred moon
By my bedside their memories croon;
So shall I have strange dreams and blest
In my brief rest.
Fold thy great wings about my face,
Hide day-dawn from my resting-place,
And cheat me with thy false delight,
Most Holy Night.
—Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)
WHEN MUSIC SOUNDS, John Rutter
When music sounds, gone is the earth I know,
And all her lovely things even lovelier grow;
Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees
Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.
When music sounds, out of the water rise
Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes,
Rapt in strange dreams burns each enchanted face,
With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place.
When music sounds, all that I was I am
Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came;
While from Time’s woods break into distant song
The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
—Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)
MY BELOVED IS MINE, AND I AM HIS, from The Best-Beloved, Chris DeBlasio
E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having ranged and search’d a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin:
So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine.
E’en so we met; and after long pursuit,
E’en so we joined; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax, and He was flames of fire:
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs, that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world’s but theirs; but my Belovèd’s mine.
—Francis Quarles (1592-1644)
THE DAY IS DONE, Stephen Paulus
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes over me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Then read from some treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall be banished like restless feelings
That silently steal away.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)