Difference between revisions of "The Garden of Proserpine (Huub de Lange)"

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*{{CPDLno|22454}} [{{website|delange}}/THE_GARDEN_OF_PROSERPINE_(Huub_de_Lange).pdf {{extpdf}}] [{{website|delange}}/THE_GARDEN_OF_PROSERPINE_(Huub_de_Lange).mp3 {{extmp3}}]
*{{CPDLno|22454}} [{{website|delange}}/THE_GARDEN_OF_PROSERPINE_(Huub_de_Lange).pdf {{extpdf}}] [{{website|delange}}/THE_GARDEN_OF_PROSERPINE_(Huub_de_Lange).mp3 {{extmp3}}]
{{Editor|Huub de Lange|2010-10-15}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|19|437}}{{Copy|Personal}}{{Edition}}Full score including piano part.
{{Editor|Huub de Lange|2010-10-15}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|19}}{{Copy|Personal}}{{Edition}}Full score including piano part.
==General Information==
==General Information==

Revision as of 19:39, 28 November 2012

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  • CPDL #22454:  Icon_pdf_globe.gif Icon_mp3_globe.gif
Editor: Huub de Lange (submitted 2010-10-15).   Score information: A4, 19 pages   Copyright: PersonalThis template name is reserved for future development (something in line with what was originally proposed by Pml).

Full score including piano part.

General Information

Title: The Garden of Proserpine
Composer: Huub de Lange
Lyricist: Algeron Charles Swinburnecreate page

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB
Genre: SecularPartsong

Language: English
Instruments: Piano
Published: 2010

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

Here, where the world is quiet;
         Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
         In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
         A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
         And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
         For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
         And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
         And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
         Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
         And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
         No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
         Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
         For dead men deadly wine.

(The original poems consists of twelve strophes. In this setting the first four have been used.)