PershsNhpios
04-18-2011, 12:23
I have wandered from my hall to yours, following the illusion and entranced by the illusion, that I could stun you with words. When I begin to speak now, when I start to write, the verse which resounds like song in my imagining - clear and powerful with music to suit - is nothing like to the words which result, ending here upon this page void of all that spirit which conceived this will.
For they are bound and harmonious with music, friends, music which I know would warm you. The most darling crescendo of the loveliest aria and the voice of bygone tenors might be equal to this which I hear. And if you could hear it too, you would be glad of heart. It is the sound of happiness that is found there in my consciousness, and I wish you to hear it for I feel it may have eluded you too long.
It is the truth, you have heard this happiness before and perhaps you know it well. But what fellow knows this sound so well that on hearing it again - he does not rejoice as he would with a new found love?
For could it be that what we have found to be a new love, may rather be this same caressing sound which we have heard in earlier days, and now speaks to us manifest in a new body?
And these thoughts I wish to give, they are borne and chanted upon music, this music, which I feel is the sound of happiness and which I fear eludes you.
When you noticed her eyes of divine hue,
And her hand a sacred thing,
Did you hear the violins on cue,
Or other works of string?
For this was that which I now hear, and wish to play to you - I'd see her eyes so rarely dear, and other views eschew.
It swells and rises within my chest, and it is scarcely contained within that frame. Yet it comes but dry and meagre in what is written as if it was nearly spent. I am tired with trying to entice it from there, wherever it may be, and let it play havoc with the emotions of another.
For they are loud and harsh with music, still music which I know is the sound of happiness that has eluded me.
For they are bound and harmonious with music, friends, music which I know would warm you. The most darling crescendo of the loveliest aria and the voice of bygone tenors might be equal to this which I hear. And if you could hear it too, you would be glad of heart. It is the sound of happiness that is found there in my consciousness, and I wish you to hear it for I feel it may have eluded you too long.
It is the truth, you have heard this happiness before and perhaps you know it well. But what fellow knows this sound so well that on hearing it again - he does not rejoice as he would with a new found love?
For could it be that what we have found to be a new love, may rather be this same caressing sound which we have heard in earlier days, and now speaks to us manifest in a new body?
And these thoughts I wish to give, they are borne and chanted upon music, this music, which I feel is the sound of happiness and which I fear eludes you.
When you noticed her eyes of divine hue,
And her hand a sacred thing,
Did you hear the violins on cue,
Or other works of string?
For this was that which I now hear, and wish to play to you - I'd see her eyes so rarely dear, and other views eschew.
It swells and rises within my chest, and it is scarcely contained within that frame. Yet it comes but dry and meagre in what is written as if it was nearly spent. I am tired with trying to entice it from there, wherever it may be, and let it play havoc with the emotions of another.
For they are loud and harsh with music, still music which I know is the sound of happiness that has eluded me.