Over here – Frederic, look! … This is – Warsaw: – “Ear of Corn”? … like a gold comet ripened, Whichever you are, And where? … Are a sign …Įvermore – vengeance upon you: PRIVATION! …įorever to throw out before him – down payed ! Oh! You – who in chronicles sign yourself Era, Hearing what? – like when boys battle boys –Īnd murmuring: “He – has he started to play? Where the Host – I could spy through pale wheatblades –Īnd – now – you’ve ended the song – And I However its echoes set themselves up, will be different What in that, in what you have played, and then what? –Ī first note recited – and what? he’ll express it Your touch scarce a touch – ostrich feather like –īrushing me blurred in my eyes with your ivory In whiteness – possessing – and shuffling – Of what sound was he Maestro! whose playing’s repelling? …”īound to your place in those days, oh Frederic! Whose force like a missile struggles with song, Once when you mirrored – each moment, each moment – “I will not render you – no! I will raise you! …”īound to your place, those days so penultimate
– Life’s end a whisper summons its start:
Bérangerīound to your place those penultimate days La musique est une chose étrange! - Byron
0 kommentar(er)
