by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols (1893 - 1944)
Alas, poor rhapsodist, how sad thou art...
Language: English
Alas, poor rhapsodist, how sad thou art ! Is thine hour come? so soon, then, must thou part ? Hush we our concert now to thy hushed heart, And with our measure ease thy onfaring way. Pale Memory, saddest witness of delight, Whose eyes with gathered tears now glisten bright More than with joy they glittered yesternight, With thy lorn voice begin this roundelay. Thou Solitude, the Strange Companion, Heard faintly of the few and seen of none, On thy weak pipe of ever-wandering tone Through and about this ditty weaving play. Proud Sorrow, shadowy-haired with starlit crest, On thy black heavy lyre, whose sharp heel pressed Over thy buried heart destroys thy breast, Make mourn thy moaning chords beneath the lay. So sooth our concent now thou shalt not hear The fan of secret sandals feathering near, Nor shall we mark we play to no man's ear When thou with Sleep art stolen away.
About the headline (FAQ)
Authorship:
- by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols (1893 - 1944), no title, appears in Aurelia & Other Poems, in Swansong, no. 4, first published 1920 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by (Philip) Christian Darnton (1905 - 1981), "Alas, poor rhapsodist, how sad thou art!", 1935 [soprano and orchestra], from Swan Song, no. 1. [text not verified]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2008-12-07
Line count: 20
Word count: 155