lirik lagu richard mitchley - may 1918 by john jay chapman
the moon at midnight quenched her vaporous light
leaving the stars but faintly bright
like tapers that burn ill;
and in the fragrant bosom of the night
the summer breezes round the garden creep
now moving and now still
nursing the buds their care has laid to sleep;
or tip~toe softly to my window~sill
and whisper through the room
to tell that close at hand
the lilies~of~the~valley stand
and lilacs are in bloom
a breathing night,—no ray, no beam,—
but shadowy stillness over everything
i listen to the flooding of a stream
that ‘mid the joyous secrets of the spring
subdues his murmuring;
and in the silence cool
huddles his waves, till, at a bound
i hear as in a gleam of sound
the gathered waters plunging to their pool
once more the silence; then the sound again!
i cannot say how long i stood
and listened to that velvet flood;
perhaps the stream poured lethe on my brain—
displaced the stars—for in their train
i saw the french cathedrals looming by
like citadels that beaconed on the night
or swinging urns that scattered golden light
in the surrounding sky
chartres, beauvais, rouen—i could mark
each gothic lantern of the mind
that, kindling in the ages dark
rose, flamed and left behind
the sacred sh~ll of a mysterious ark
the treasure and the solace of mankind
voices they have,—a language of their own
that floats in arches, domes and spires;
and many a traveler and pilgrim young
wandering unconscious and alone
has heard the accents of the ancient choirs
still echoing in their avenues of stone
from men who wrought and dreamed and sung
and fought and prayed in that forgotten tongue
again my eyes upon the night were turned
the central darkness bloomed, and—robed in state—
while her great works about her burned—
sate france enthronèd and incoronate!
but ah! the vision fades: a sky of lead
has drunk the apparition. in such pain
as breaks the rest of one whose love is dead
i wake to greet the vacant world again
the garden is a blank. unquiet birds
are warbling gently in the rain
sweet are their voices, desolate the words
that from their little throats they pour
chanting, like choristers, a requiem:
“beauvais and chartres and rouen yet remain;
rheims is no more;
and amiens is fading like thy dream
alas, when all is done
what shall the dayspring find to shine upon?”
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