This tranquil, meditative tone poem captures the awe-nspiring BEAUTY one may find in AUSTERITY. This increasingly rare quality, afforded by SOLITUDE whlle contemplating the mystery and wonder of lonely landscapes, instills a soothing-if-somewhat-melancholy sense of peace in those who take time to immerse themselves in it. A closeness to God never found in the hurly burly of chattering social intercourse or militantly organized efforts intended to "improve" the world may be experienced in music such as this.A lovely –– much-needed –– RESPITE from the earthly cares and woes on which we tend to dwell compulsively.
The Photo Essay accompanying In The Fen Country almost perfectly evoked the mood, character, and meaning of Vaughan-Wlliams' music. I fancied I could see a parallel between the bare tree branches reaching almost beseechingly toward the heavens, and the delicte stoone spires of the Gothic cathedrals doing the same. But, even the most glorious works of Man pale in comparison to the magnificence and limitless wonder of God's handiwork.
FOR SOME REASON VAUGHN-WILLIAMS' AUSTERE TONE POEM REMINDED ME OF THIS WORK BY EMILY DICKINSON. BOTH PIECE EVOKE A SIMILAR MOOD, DESPITE THE OBVIOUS DIFFERENCES IN SUBJECT MATTER.I know some lonely houses off the road A robber ’d like the look of,— Wooden barred, And windows hanging low, Inviting to A portico, Where two could creep: One hand the tools, The other peep To make sure all ’s asleep. Old-fashioned eyes, Not easy to surprise! How orderly the kitchen ’d look by night, With just a clock,— But they could gag the tick, And mice won’t bark; And so the walls don’t tell, None will. A pair of spectacles ajar just stir— An almanac’s aware. Was it the mat winked, Or a nervous star? The moon slides down the stair To see who ’s there. There ’s plunder,—where? Tankard, or spoon, Earring, or stone, A watch, some ancient brooch To match the grandmamma, Staid sleeping there. Day rattles, too, Stealth ’s slow; The sun has got as far As the third sycamore. Screams chanticleer, “Who ’s there?” And echoes, trains away, Sneer—“Where?” While the old couple, just astir, Think that the sunrise left the door ajar!~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
AND THIS RELIC WRITTEN WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN:Alone I walk down shady woodland paths.
Bright sunshine filtered through the trees
Dapples the ground beneath my questing feet.
Here at last I am alone with God.
Farther on a little pool catches
And reflects the filtered light which beckons
Kindly like a White Witch of the Wood.
I feel a thrill without a trace of fear.
I cannot stop myself from moving closer
Toward the Edge to see the Tadpoles swimming
In myriad stages of development.I feel a wish to be part of their world.
The pool is a Mirror enabling me to see
Myself more clearly in a tranquil light;
Also an Eye that opens the mysteries of
The Universe to peace-filled understanding.
Franco,I'm glad that at least somebody appreciates this selection I posted.
I almost always do, AOW, and I'm grateful to you for providing opportunities like this, even though most seem to lack enough curiosity and innate good taste to be the least bit interested in exploring the wonders and glories of truly good music –– never mind why. (:-cI think it helps to remind ourselves that at the time these late Romantic English greats were composing these lovely works MOST of the British public probably much preferred the cheapness, coarseness, and blatant vulgarity of the British Music Hall, which I think was akin to our "Burlesque" shows..
Me too! Late last night I got a chance to enjoy AOW>>>
Bunkerville, Thank you!
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