Bacchanalia

Listen to:

Bacchanalia (5:04)

by Matthew Arnold 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I 

The evening comes, the fields are still. 

The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 

Unheard all day, ascends again; 

Deserted is the half-mown plain, 

Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, 

The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, 

All housed within the sleeping farms! 

The business of the day is done, 

The last belated gleaner gone. 

And from the thyme upon the height, 

And from the elder-blossom white 

And pale dog-roses in the hedge, 

And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 

In puffs of balm the night-air blows 

The perfume which the day forgoes. 

And on the pure horizon far, 

See, pulsing with the first-born star, 

The liquid sky above the hill! 

The evening comes, the fields are still. 

       Loitering and leaping, 

       With saunter, with bounds— 

       Flickering and circling 

       In files and in rounds— 

       Gaily their pine-staff green 

       Tossing in air, 

       Loose o'er their shoulders white 

       Showering their hair— 

       See! the wild Maenads 

       Break from the wood, 

       Youth and Iacchus 

       Maddening their blood. 

       See! through the quiet land 

       Rioting they pass— 

       Fling the fresh heaps about, 

       Trample the grass. 

       Tear from the rifled hedge 

       Garlands, their prize; 

       Fill with their sports the field, 

       Fill with their cries. 

       Shepherd, what ails thee, then? 

       Shepherd, why mute? 

       Forth with thy joyous song! 

       Forth with thy flute! 

       Tempts not the revel blithe? 

       Lure not their cries? 

       Glow not their shoulders smooth? 

       Melt not their eyes? 

       Is not, on cheeks like those, 

       Lovely the flush? 

       —Ah, so the quiet was! 

       So was the hush! 

II 

The epoch ends, the world is still. 

The age has talk'd and work'd its fill— 

The famous orators have shone, 

The famous poets sung and gone, 

The famous men of war have fought, 

The famous speculators thought, 

The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 

The famous painters fill'd their wall, 

The famous critics judged it all. 

The combatants are parted now— 

Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, 

The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 

And in the after-silence sweet, 

Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, 

Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 

Of this or that down-trodden name, 

Delicate spirits, push'd away 

In the hot press of the noon-day. 

And o'er the plain, where the dead age 

Did its now silent warfare wage— 

O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, 

Where many a splendour finds its tomb, 

Many spent fames and fallen mights— 

The one or two immortal lights 

Rise slowly up into the sky 

To shine there everlastingly, 

Like stars over the bounding hill. 

The epoch ends, the world is still. 

       Thundering and bursting 

       In torrents, in waves— 

       Carolling and shouting 

       Over tombs, amid graves— 

       See! on the cumber'd plain 

       Clearing a stage, 

       Scattering the past about, 

       Comes the new age. 

       Bards make new poems, 

       Thinkers new schools, 

       Statesmen new systems, 

       Critics new rules. 

       All things begin again; 

       Life is their prize; 

       Earth with their deeds they fill, 

       Fill with their cries. 

       Poet, what ails thee, then? 

       Say, why so mute? 

       Forth with thy praising voice! 

       Forth with thy flute! 

       Loiterer! why sittest thou 

       Sunk in thy dream? 

       Tempts not the bright new age? 

       Shines not its stream? 

       Look, ah, what genius, 

       Art, science, wit! 

       Soldiers like Caesar, 

       Statesmen like Pitt! 

       Sculptors like Phidias, 

       Raphaels in shoals, 

       Poets like Shakespeare— 

       Beautiful souls! 

       See, on their glowing cheeks 

       Heavenly the flush! 

       —Ah, so the silence was! 

       So was the hush! 

The world but feels the present's spell, 

The poet feels the past as well; 

Whatever men have done, might do, 

Whatever thought, might think it too. 

May Night

Listen to:

May Night (:35)

by Sara Teasdale 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The spring is fresh and fearless
And every leaf is new,
The world is brimmed with moonlight,
The lilac brimmed with dew.

Here in the moving shadows
I catch my breath and sing--
My heart is fresh and fearless
And over-brimmed with spring. 

May

Listen to:

May (:40)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from The Poet's Calendar

Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
These are my heralds, and behold! my name
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
I waft o'er all the land from far away
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May.

Song on May Morning

Listen to:

Song on May Morning (:47)

by John Milton 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,

  Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her

  The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.

  Hail bounteous May that dost inspire 

  Mirth and youth, and warm desire,

  Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,

  Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.

Thus we salute thee with our early Song,

And welcome thee, and wish thee long.  

Love of Nature

Listen to:

Love of Nature (1:38)

by John Clare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  I love thee, Nature, with a boundless love!
  The calm of earth, the storm of roaring woods!
  The winds breathe happiness where'er I rove!
  There's life's own music in the swelling floods!
  My heart is in the thunder-melting clouds,
  The snow-cap't mountain, and the rolling sea!
  And hear ye not the voice where darkness shrouds
  The heavens? There lives happiness for me!

  My pulse beats calmer while His lightnings play!
  My eye, with earth's delusions waxing dim,
  Clears with the brightness of eternal day!
  The elements crash round me! It is He!
  Calmly I hear His voice and never start.
  From Eve's posterity I stand quite free,
  Nor feel her curses rankle round my heart.

  Love is not here. Hope is, and at His voice—
  The rolling thunder and the roaring sea—
  My pulses leap, and with the hills rejoice;
  Then strife and turmoil are at end for me.
  No matter where life's ocean leads me on,
  For Nature is my mother, and I rest,
  When tempests trouble and the sun is gone,
  Like to a weary child upon her breast.

The Scarecrow

Listen to:

The Scarecrow (1:14)

by Walter de la Mare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

All winter through I bow my head

  Beneath the driving rain;

The North wind powders me with snow

  And blows me black again;

At midnight 'neath a maze of stars

  I flame with glittering rime,

And stand, above the stubble, stiff

  As mail at morning-prime.

But when that child, called Spring, and all

  His host of children, come,

Scattering their buds and dew upon

  Those acres of my home,

Some rapture in my rags awakes;

  I lift void eyes and scan

The skies for crows, those ravening foes,

  Of my strange master, Man.

I watch him striding lank behind

  His clashing team, and know

Soon will the wheat swish body high

  Where once lay sterile snow;

Soon shall I gaze across a sea

  Of sun-begotten grain,

Which my unflinching watch hath sealed

  For harvest once again.

The Invitation

Listen to:

The Invitation (1:16)

by John Clare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one,
  And let us be walking the meadows so fair,
  Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes,
  And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair.

  Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by;
  Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown;
  Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear,
  Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down.

  Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare;
  Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane;
  To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes,
  Come, love, and let us be happy again.

  Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers
  Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue;
  Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook
  Where you and I pledged our first love so true.

Spring

Listen to:

Spring (:28)

by Robert Browning 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Pippa Passes, a drama 

    The year's at the spring
    And day's at the morn;
    Morning's at seven;
    The hillside's dew-pearled;
    The lark's on the wing;
    The snail's on the thorn:
    God's in His heaven—
    All's right with the world!

Most Sweet It Is

Listen to:

Most Sweet It Is  (:58)

by William Wordsworth 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us from that day,
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

Sonnet: "If we are leaves that fall"

Listen to:

Sonnet: "If we are leaves that fall" (:55)

by Wallace Stevens 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

If we are leaves that fall upon the ground

To lose our greenness in the quiet dust

Of forest-depths; if we are flowers that must

Lie torn and creased upon a bitter mound,

No touch of sweetness in our ruins found;

If we are weeds whom no one wise can trust

To live an hour before we feel the gust

Of Death, and by our side its last, keen sound;

Then let a tremor through our briefness run,

Wrapping it in with mad, sweet sorcery

Of love; for in the fern I saw the sun

Take fire against the dew; the lily white

Was soft and deep at morn; the rosary

Streamed forth a wild perfume into the light.

First published in:

The Harvard Monthly, XXVIII (Mar. 1899)

The Hill

Listen to:

The Hill (1:11)

by Rupert Brooke

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

   Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,

    Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

    You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;

   Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,

   When we are old, are old. . . ."  "And when we die

    All's over that is ours; and life burns on

   Through other lovers, other lips," said I,

   -- "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

   "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.

    Life is our cry.  We have kept the faith!" we said;

    "We shall go down with unreluctant tread

   Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . .  Proud we were,

   And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.

   -- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

January Cold Desolate

Listen to:

January Cold Desolate (:44)

by Christina Rossetti 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

January cold desolate; 


February all dripping wet; 


March wind ranges; 


April changes; 


Birds sing in tune 


To flowers of May, 


And sunny June 


Brings longest day; 


In scorched July 


The storm-clouds fly 


Lightning-torn; 


August bears corn, 


September fruit; 


In rough October 


Earth must disrobe her; 


Stars fall and shoot 


In keen November; 


And night is long 


And cold is strong 


In bleak December. 

The Bells

Listen to:

The Bells (1:30)

by Walter de la Mare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Shadow and light both strove to be

The eight bell-ringers' company,

As with his gliding rope in hand,

Counting his changes, each did stand;

While rang and trembled every stone,

To music by the bell-mouths blown,

Till the bright clouds that towered on high

Seemed to re-echo cry with cry.

Still swang the clappers to and fro,

When, in the far-spread fields below,

I saw a ploughman with his team

Lift to the bells and fix on them

His distant eyes, as if he would

Drink in the utmost sound he could;

While near him sat his children three,

And in the green grass placidly

Played undistracted on, as if

What music earthly bells might give

Could only faintly stir their dream,

And stillness make more lovely seem.

Soon night hid horses, children, all

In sleep deep and ambrosial;

Yet, yet it seemed from star to star,

Welling now near, now faint and far,

Those echoing bells rang on in dream,

And stillness made even lovelier seem.

The Fly

Listen to:

The Fly (:45)

by Walter De La Mare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

How large unto the tiny fly
  Must little things appear!—
A rosebud like a feather bed,
  Its prickle like a spear;

A dewdrop like a looking-glass,
  A hair like golden wire;
The smallest grain of mustard-seed
  As fierce as coals of fire;

A loaf of bread, a lofty hill;
  A wasp, a cruel leopard;
And specks of salt as bright to see
  As lambkins to a shepherd.

To Morning

Listen to:

To Morning (:43)

by William Blake

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honied dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun,
Rouz'd like a huntsman to the chace; and, with
Thy buskin'd feet, appear upon our hills.

The Solitary Reaper

Listen to:

The Solitary Reaper (1:34)

by William Wordsworth

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

 Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

The Furl of Fresh-Leaved Dogrose

Listen to:

The Furl of Fresh-Leaved Dogrose (1:13)

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down

His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun

Had swarthed about with lion-brown

     Before the Spring was done.

His locks like all a ravel-rope's-end,

   With hempen strands in spray--

Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks--fall'n off their ranks,

   Swung down at a disarray.

Or like a juicy and jostling shock

   Of bluebells sheaved in May

Or wind-long fleeces on the flock

   A day off shearing day.

Then over his turnéd temples--here--

   Was a rose, or, failing that,

Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear

   For a beauty-bow to his hat,

And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled

     diamonds

Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.

Ribblesdale

Listen to:

Ribblesdale (1:17)

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavés throng

And louchéd low grass, heaven that dost appeal

To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel;

That canst but only be, but dost that long--

Thou canst but be, but that thou well dost; strong

Thy plea with him who dealt, nay does now deal,

Thy lovely dale down thus and thus bids reel

Thy river, and o'er gives all to rack or wrong.

   And what is Earth's eye, tongue, or heart else, where

Else, but in dear and dogged man?--Ah, the heir

To his own selfbent so bound, so tied to his turn,

To thriftless reave both our rich round world bare

And none reck of world after, this bids wear

Earth brows of such care, care and dear concern.

That Time of Year

Listen to:

That Time of Year (:57)

by William Shakespeare

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

Ode on Solitude

Listen to: 

Ode on Solitude (1:04)

by Alexander Pope

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care           

A few paternal acres bound,    

Content to breathe his native air          

            In his own ground.     

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,               

Whose flocks supply him with attire; 

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,       

            In winter fire.  

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find     

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away                  

In health of body, peace of mind,        

            Quiet by day.  

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 

Together mix’d, sweet recreation,       

And innocence, which most does please                 

            With meditation.         

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;    

Thus unlamented let me die;   

Steal from the world, and not a stone  

            Tell where I lie.