(Finale: Allegro con brio) Heaven is emptied of angels; the jubilant legions, Wild with tumultuous rapture and breathless despair, Whirling and swirling, encircle with song and with laughter. Strong with the infinite strength to the infinite regions, Rises the Crucified, swift on the tides of the air, Drawing the worshipping ages in ecstasy after. Lyman W. Allen. A SYMPHONY (Allegretto) Sweet melody with rippling hair (Andante Maestoso) Now calm, majestic is her tread, (Vivace non troppo) Then quick with supple waist she trips Adown the lawn with hands on hips, And swaying head and laughing eye, A simple witch-maid dancing by. (Adagio) Now slow and sad her measured pace, With drooping head and tearful face. Her sable garments sweep the sands, Bereaved, a mourning queen she stands. (Allegro Vivacissimo) Then whirling in ecstatic rings, And beats, 'mid filmy gauze's sheen, Henry Morgan Stone. THE SYMPHONY What dreams and longings are within me stirred? All that a ripened life can grasp and hold, With those suggestive whispers still untold, Mingled and blended with compelling word. A theme of youth, - rich, mellow, promisefilled, Which modulates, perplexed with varied scene Till the last motive stands full-robed, serene. It satisfies and life's unrest is stilled. With dreams fulfilled, and soul suffused with peace, Andante wraps the sense in subtle mist. Enfold me, luring phantom, close and long – But let the last slow cadence bring release. Helen Philbrook Patten. INTERLUDE (Allegretto) Now swells a martial symphony, That blended wood and brass and strings Lift men and bear them far away, As in the old, miraculous day From town to town, from shore to shore, From Ispahan to Candahar, Nay, even to the evening star, Whoever knew its talisman! 'Tis like the leaves of the dark passion-flower Which grows on a strong vine whose roots, oh deep they sink, Deep in the ground, that flower's pure life to drink. II What is her playing like? 'Tis like a bird Who, singing in a wild wood, never knows That its lone melody is heard By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy woes. Richard Watson Gilder. THE LUTE - PLAYER OF CASA No others sing as you have sung Oh, Well Beloved of me! So glad you are, so lithe and young, That dances in the golden rain |