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Rolfe Humphries, music, in English Clear filters

CheerfulRolfe Humphries

Test Paper

What do we praise?—Sunsets, and open fires, America, and mother love, I guess; The merry laughter of a little child, And poems that touch the heart with tenderness. What do we really praise?—Oh, Life and Time, (With capitals), books that Fadiman commends, The chromium bars, the streamlined cars and trains, The music played for music's newest friends. What do we praise beyond all this?—High art, God's majesty and sacraments and grace, The universal music of the spheres, The mysteries of interstellar space. Come down to earth. What is it you and I, My love, deep in our heart of hearts, adore, Cherish, and tend? — Each other. Not so fast. Maybe, a little; but ourselves much more.
SadRolfe Humphries

Willow Grove

Still the dissembling music floats, Corrupt, deciduous, and gay. The leaves come down like notes, the notes Like leaves; the players put away Their racks and instruments; they hurry, Faster than usual; the park, For once, lacks dawdlers; people worry; The air is prematurely dark. Dark, and a storm may come. The wind Lifts for a moment, sweeps the square Of litter, leaves, and leaflets, thinned By the low rush of restless air. While one, reluctant, from his scene Of triumph, snaps his case, and goes Down the brief stair, across the green, Unhappy at the season's close.
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Arbor Song

The vine on the trellis Weaves under and over, Under and over, weaves, Over and under— To the constant frame the ever inconstant wonder, Looseness of leaves And cling of the tendril twining, O intricate! O rare! Even space, even air, Part of the order and becomingness, Blossom as grace-note, all, Whether moving or still, So perfectly designed That the sight is the sound, No more and no less, Beautiful, musical.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Variation on a Theme by Francis Kilvert

The Welsh harp has no silver string, And it is played on the left shoulder. And the harpers all are older Than the counsellors of the king. And they are becoming rare, Those gray and bearded men With young hands and long fingers, But every here and there, By glade or coombe or glen, One of them lingers Remote from all known ways Save those that music clears Through ash and sycamore To the door of their dwelling. Whenever one of them plays, Whoever hears him hears
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Harp Music

Softly, let the measure break Till the dancers wake, and rise, Lace their golden shoes, and turn Toward the stars that burn their eyes. Softly, let the measure flow, Float in silver, and follow. Softly, let the measure dwell Slowly, as the spell is wound Out and in, through space and time, While the sandals rhyme the round. Softly, let the measure stir, Lift, subside, and go under. Softly, let the measure prove The bright cadence moving there Changing, for unbroken dark, The illumined arc of air.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Aberdovey Music

The bells of Aberdovey Sound from a buried city Sunken far under the sea, Heard when the nights are stormy And carried inland, faintly, As far as Montgomery. Hearken! Music of the lost Haunts that coast, all shadowy. And there could be voices there, Leagues and fathoms down, a choir Whose intoning reaches far Out along that lonely shore Up to ghostly cloud and air, Cadences profound and pure, Solemn choral, when the bell Has tolled the knell of the hour.

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