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Music:
Fugue in A Major |
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It was pure chance you got the
name Irene, For no one at your birth foresaw the flower The sprite contained, nor could some lover glean Such grace as would become you at this hour. Nor can you now, even in late spring, Imagine what your name will mean tomorrow, What evanescence those sweet sounds will sing, Or from what naked cry their sense will borrow. No heart can summon up, nor courage dare Encompass all the life a name has known; Too much of what we love lies buried there, Once again mere sound upon a stone. How lovely the attempt, and yet absurd, To brave both death and time with just a word. Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
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