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A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let read more
A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We life our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,
England.
I had wanted to say that my song was far too painful to sing.
I had wanted to say that my song was far too painful to sing.
He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."
He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."
Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.
Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.
Everything ends with songs.
[Fr., Tout finit par des chansons.]
Everything ends with songs.
[Fr., Tout finit par des chansons.]
She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early read more
She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry
wheel), she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of
fortune . . . and fears no manner of ill because she means none.
The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.
The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
You must pass your days in song. Let your whole life be a song.
You must pass your days in song. Let your whole life be a song.
