Textarchiv - Richard Watson Gilder

A Memory of Rubinstein

mrbot — Sat, 31 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

He of the ocean is, its thunderous waves
Echo his music; while far down the shore
Mad laughter hurries —a white, blowing spume.
I hear again in memory that wild storm;
The winds of heaven go rushing round the world,
And broods above the rage one sphinx-like face.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Music in Darkness

mrbot — Thu, 29 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

At the dim end of day
I heard the great musician play:
Saw her white hands now slow, now swiftly pass;
Where gleamed the polished wood, as in a glass,
The shadow hands repeating every motion.
Then did I voyage forth on music's ocean,
Visiting many a sad or joyful shore,
Where storming breakers roar,
Or singing birds made music so intense,—
So intimate of happiness or sorrow, —
I scarce could courage borrow
To hear those strains; well-nigh I hurried thence
To escape the intolerable weight
That on my spirit fell when sobbed the music: late, too late, too late,
While slow withdrew the light
And, on the lyric tide, came in the night.

So grew the dark, enshrouding all the room
In a melodious gloom,
Her face growing viewless; line by line
That swaying form did momently decline
And was in darkness lost.
Then white hands ghostly turned, though still they tost
From tone to tone; pauseless and sure as if in perfect light;
With blind, instinctive, most miraculous sight,
On, on they sounded in that world of night.

III

Ah, dearest one! was this thy thought, as mine,
As still the music stayed?
"So shall the loved ones fade,—
Feature by feature, line on lovely line;
For all our love, alas,
From twilight into darkness shall they pass!
We in that dark shall see them never more,
But from our spirits they shall not be banished,—
For on and on shall the sweet music pour
That was the soul of them, the loved, the vanished;
And we, who listen, shall not lose them quite
In that mysterious night."

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Because the Rose must fade

mrbot — Wed, 28 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

Because the rose must fade
Shall I not love the rose?
Because the summer shade
Passes when winter blows,
Shall I not rest me there
In the cool air?

Because the sunset sky
Makes music in my soul,
Only to fail and die,
Shall I not take the whole
Of beauty that it gives
While yet it lives?

III

Because the sweet of youth
Doth vanish all too soon
Shall I forget, forsooth,
To learn its lingering tune;
My joy to memorize
In those young eyes?

If, like the summer flower
That blooms, —a fragrant death, —
Keen music hath no power
To live beyond its breath,
Then of this flood of song
Let me drink long!

All, yes, because the rose
Doth fade like sunset skies;
Because rude winter blows
All bare, and music dies—
Therefore, now is to me
Eternity!

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Music in Moonlight

mrbot — Tue, 27 Mar 2018 21:10:06 +0000

Was ever music lovelier than to-night!
'T was Schumann's Song of Moonlight; o'er the vale
The new moon lingered near the western hills;
The hearth-fire glimmered low; but melting tones
Blotted all else from memory and thought,
And all the world was music. Wondrous hour!
Then sank anew into our trancéd hearts
One secret and deep lesson of sweet sound —
The loveliness that from unloveliness
Out-springs, flooding the soul with poignant joy,
As the harmonious chords to harsh succeed,
And the rapt spirit climbs through pain to bliss:
Eternal question, answer infinite;
As day to night replies; as light to shade;
As summer to rough winter; death to life,—
Death not a closing, but an opening door;
A deepened life, a prophecy fulfilled.

Not in the very present comes reply
But in the flow of time. Should the song cease
Too soon; ere yet the rooted answer blooms,
Lo, what a pang of loss and dissonance!
But time, with the resolving and intended tone
Heals all, and makes all beautiful and right.
Even so our mortal music-makers frame
Their messages melodious to men;
Even so the Eterne his mighty harmonies
Fashions, supreme, of life, and fate, and time.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Ill Tidings

mrbot — Tue, 27 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

In the long studio from whose towering walls
Calm Pheidias beams, and Angelo appalls,
Eager the listening, downcast faces throng
While violins their piercing tones prolong.
At times I know not if I see, or hear,
Yon statue's smile, or some not sorrowing tear
Down-falling on the surface of the stream
That music pours across my waking dream.
Ah, is it then a dream that while repeat
Those chords, like strokes of silver-shod light feet,
And the great Master's music marches on—
I hear the horses of the Parthenon?

But all to-day seems vague, unreal, far,
With fear and discord in the dearest strain,
For 'neath yon slowly-sinking western star
One that I love lies on her bed of pain.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Prelude

mrbot — Fri, 16 Mar 2018 21:10:07 +0000

Without intent, I find a book I've writ
And music is the pleasant theme of it;
For though I can no music make, I trust
Here's proof I love it.

Though no reasoning fine
Should any ask to show this art divine,
Yet have I known even poets who refuse
To name pure music as an equal muse.
If music pleased them, 't was not deeply felt,
And in its charms they deemed it shame to melt;
For that, they held, it is an art where might
Even children give its votaries delight,
And therefore lacking in the things of mind.
But 't is not argued well. There is a kind
Of music that a little child can give,
Echoing great masters; but the masters live
Not in such echo —elfish, immature;
'T is but a part of them. Ah, be ye sure
Though lovely, not the loveliest; that must wait
For him who noble moods can recreate
With solemn, subtle, and deep-thoughted art
That wins the mind or ere it takes the heart.
For that a child may gracious music make
Is but a sign that music doth partake
Of something deep, primeval, that began
When God dreamed of himself, and fashioned man.
'T is near the source of being; it repeats
The vibrancy that runs in rhythmic beats
Through all the shaken universe; and though
Its language shall take not the ebb and flow
Of speech articulate, it is that tone
Cleaves closer to life's core; the thing alone
Well-nigh it is, not thought about the thing;
No pictured flight across a painted sky,—
The bird itself, the beating of its wing;
The pang that is a cry;
Not human language, but pure ecstasy.

In this my BOOK OF MUSIC which hath come
As doth a lover's litany by some
Miraculous chance, with added song to song,
I trust I have my Lady done no wrong,—
My Lady of Melody I worshiped long.

Blameless the artist praises the sweet rose
If in his art he aim not to compose
An image, all inanimate, that seeks
To copy shrewdly those inviolate cheeks
Or the rich, natural odor imitate;
But shows, as best he can, its grace and state,
The love that in him burns for this fair flower,
And all his joy therein, for one brief hour.
Nor shall the poet subtly strive to phrase
For any heart save his what music says;
For, —as before the autumn skies and woods, —
A meaning gleams through our own human moods:
Yet is the meaning real; and many a wound
Wherewith our spirits are beaten to the ground
Heals 'neath the sanctity of noble sound.

Ah, not to match the music of the wires
Or trembling breath, the instruments and choirs,
But to tell truly how that moves the soul
In the impassionate and rhythmic word,
By poesy's proper art, —which must be heard
Even as music is! Not to forget
The viol and the harp, the clarinet,
The booming organ; too, the intertwined
Voices wherewith the sounding, rich clavier
Under the master's hand enchants the ear,—
If so may be to catch a fleeting strain
And in new art imprison it again!
Then let him list to music who would rhyme;
For every art, though separate, may learn,
From the great souls in all, how to make burn
Brighter the light of beauty through all time.
And scorn not thou to read of music's power
Over one soul that in great humbleness
His memory brings of many a happy hour,
Hoping these echoed tones some wounded heart may bless.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Mother of Heroes

mrbot — Wed, 14 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

Mother of heroes, she,—of them who gave
Their lives to lift the lowly, free the slave.
Her, through long years, two master passions bound:
Love of our free land; and of all sweet sound.
'T was praising her to praise this land of grace;
And when I think on music—lo, her face!

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Music and Friendship

mrbot — Fri, 09 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

Thrice is sweet music sweet when every word
And lovely tone by kindred hearts are heard;
So when I hear true music, Heaven send,
To share that heavenly joy, one dear, dear friend!

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

The Pathetic Symphony

mrbot — Thu, 08 Mar 2018 21:10:07 +0000

(TSCHAIKOVSKY)

When the last movement fell, I thought:
Ah me!
Death this indeed; but still the music poured
On and still on. Oh, deathlier it grew
And then, at last, my beating heart stood still, —
Beyond all natural grief the music passing,
Beyond all tragedy, or last farewell.
Then, on that fatal tide, dismayed I felt
This living soul, my own, without one tear,
Slowly, irrevocably, and alone,
Enter the ultimate silence and the dark.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906

Listening To Music

mrbot — Thu, 08 Mar 2018 21:10:02 +0000

When on that joyful sea
Where billow on billow breaks; where swift waves follow
Waves, and hollow calls to hollow;
Where sea-birds swirl and swing,
And winds through the rigging shrill and sing:
Where night is one vast starless shade;
Where thy soul not afraid,
Though all alone unlonely,
Wanders and wavers, wavers wandering;
On that accurséd sea
One moment only,
Forget one moment, Love, thy fierce content;
Back, let thy soul be bent,—
Think back, dear Love; O Love, think back to me.

Richard Watson Gilder

1906