In a Persian Garden: A Song-cycle for Four Solo Voices (soprano, Contralto, Tenor, and Bass), with Pianoforte Accompaniment

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Metzler, 1896 - 84 страница
 

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Страница 7 - The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes — or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two — is gone.
Страница 6 - Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went.
Страница 5 - Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.
Страница 6 - A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Страница 8 - Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits — and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Страница 7 - Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows...
Страница 5 - WAKE ! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light. ii Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, "When all the Temple is prepared within, "Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?
Страница 7 - Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
Страница 8 - Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff — you shall not shrink.
Страница 6 - I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

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