The way that cannot be followed alone…

PROGRAM NOTES & SONG TEXTS

“This is the most beautiful place on earth. There are many such places. Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary.” (Abbey, 1968, p.1)

This page will contain the program notes and texts for our concert. I can update it as needed before the performance.

PROGRAM TEXTS

I’ve Got the Sun in the Morning

Got no diamonds, got no pearls,

Still I think I'm a lucky girl.

I've got the sun in the morning

And the moon at night.

Got no mansion, got no yacht,

Still I'm happy with what I got.

I've got the sun in the morning

And the moon at night

Sunshine gives me a lovely day,

Moonlight gives me the Milky Way.

Got no checkbooks, got no banks,

Still, I'd like to express my thanks.

I've got the sun in the morning

And the moon at night.

And with the sun in the morning

And the moon in the evening

I'm alright.

Love Let the Wind Cry

Love let the wind cry on the dark mountain,

Bending the ash trees and the tall hemlocks

With the great voice of Thunderous legions,

How I adore thee.

Let the hoarse torrent in the blue canyon,

Murmuring mightily out of the gray mist

Of primal chaos, cease not proclaiming

How I adore thee.

Let the long rhythm of crunching rollers,

Breaking and bursting on the white seaboard

Titan and tireless, tell, while the world stands,

How I adore thee.

Love, let the clear call of the tree cricket,

Frailest of creatures, green as the young grass,

Mark with his trilling resonant bell-note,

How I adore thee.

But, more than all sounds, surer, serener,

Fuller of passion and exultation,

Let the hushed whisper in thine own heart say,

How I adore thee.

True Loves

A heart of ice is easily melted

A heart of stone is easily thrown away

It's the true loves

That make me want to cry

It's the true loves

That make me want to say goodbye

A heart of ice is easily molded

A heart of stone is easily hidden away

It's the true loves

That make me want to cry

It's the true loves

That make me want to say goodbye

So take your true loves down to the river

And I will watch you here on the corner

And if you need me I'll always be here

A heart of stone never goes anywhere

Sence You Went Away
Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright,

Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light,

Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right,

Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue,

Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you,

Seems lak to me I don't know what to do,

Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong,

Seems lak to me de day's jes twice as long,

Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song,

Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh,

Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry,

Seems lak to me a tear stays in my eye,

Sence you went away.

I. The Night In Silence Under Many a Star

The night, in silence, under many a star;

The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Canción

Sonaba la tarde (The afternoon rang)

por los senderos;

sonaba la tarde.

Había una luz

última en el aire

y en la rama alta

del chopo grande,

sonaba la tarde.

Caía del cielo

un gozo, y el aire…

sonaba la tarde

en el aire.

Iba el corazón

llenándose de alguien.

Por los senderos

sonaba la tarde.

June Twilight

The twilight comes;

the sun dips down and sets,

The boys have done

play at the nets.

In a warm golden glow

The woods are steeped.

The shadows grow;

The bat has cheeped.

Sweet smells the new-mown hay;

The mowers pass

Home, each his way,

through the grass.

The night-wind stirs the fern,

A night-jar spins;

The windows burn

In the inns.

Dusky it grows. The moon! The dews descend.

Love, can this beauty in our hearts end?

How Sad How Lovely

How sad, how lovely,

how short, how sweet,

to see that sunset

at the end of the street.

And the day gathered in

to a single light,

and the shadows rising

from the brim of the night.

Too few, too few

are the days that will hold

your face, your face

in a blaze of gold.

How sad, how lovely,

how short, how sweet,

to see that sunset

at the end of the street.

And the lights going on

in the shops and the bars,

and the lovers looking

for the first little stars.

Like life, like a smile,

like the fall of a leaf,

how sad, how lovely,

how brief.

The Housatonic at Stockbridge

Contented river! In thy dreamy realm

The cloudy willow and the plumy elm:

Thou beautiful!

From ev’ry dreamy hill

what eye but wanders with thee at thy will,

Contented river!

And yet over-shy

To mask thy beauty from the eager eye;

Hast thou a thought to hide from field and town?

In some deep current of the sunlit brown

Ah! there’s a restive ripple,

And the swift red leaves

September’s firstlings faster drift;

Wouldst thou away, dear stream?

Come, whisper near!

I also of much resting have a fear:

Let me tomorrow thy companion be,

By fall and shallow to the adventurous sea!

Raspberry Island

My father loved spring floods. “Dont drive down to the river,” my mother would say when my father and I piled into the Ford. “H-m-m,” he replied. “H-m-m.” He drove slowly, pausing and pointing and not saying much. Ducks, he would say, watercress, mushrooms caves, Raspberry Island.

 We sat there, not speaking for a while in the pleasant afternoon… two slender boats skimming along the river. “This used to be the place where people gathered- picnics, swimming, music” (my father said). And why not? Why not gather at the river?... All of us (should come). We’ll hear music… Here at the river, the beautiful, beautiful river.

Wake Up, Little Sparrow & Poor Wayfaring Stranger

Wake up, wake up

Little sparrow

Don't make your home

Out in the snow

Little bird,

Don't you know

Your friends flew south

Many months ago

You’re just a babe

You cannot fly

Your wings won't spread

Up against the sky

I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger,

A-trav’ling through this world of woe,

But there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger

In that bright land to which I go.

I’m going there to see my Mother,

I’m going there no more to roam,

I’m just a-going over Jordan,

I’m just a-going over home.

Thundercloud Over Half-Dome

June nineteenth, nineteen thirty seven

Dear Cedric,

A strange thing happened to me today. I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so big and clear and brilliant that it made me see many things that were drifting around inside of me. Things that are related to those who are loved and those who are real friends. For the first time, I know what love is; what friends are; and what art should be. Love is seeking for a way of life; the way that cannot be followed alone; the resonance of all spiritual and physical things. Children are not only of flesh and blood- children may be ideas, thoughts, emotions. Friendship is another form of love-- more passive, perhaps, but full of the transmitting and acceptance of things like thunderclouds and grass and the clear granite of reality. Art is both love and friendship, and understanding; the desire to give. It is not charity, which is the giving of Things, it is more than kindness, which is the giving of self. It is both the taking and the giving of beauty. I wish the thundercloud had moved up over Tahoe and let loose on you. I could wish you nothing finer. -Ansel

How do I find you

How do I find you?

When do I blind you?

Do I remind you,

bind or confine you,

shine and confide

in your counter side,

co-sign your anxiety and

comfort you silently?

While tenderly pretending

that nothing is ending,

we fend off the sendoff,

suspending the mending.

Tending a garden is always a labor.

The weeds and the wilds of human behavior

fill up the earth with a bittersweet synonym

for what we contain in a world that is

brimming

with light that is dimming but fighting to

hum

its hymn to tomorrow and what is to come.

Tending a garden is mending a love

for the weeds and the wilds climbing above

the earth and its history.

Will tomorrow forget that it once was a

mystery?

How can I

How

How you remind me

to realign the elastic

shine from a light that confides

in a garden that hums—

with all that may come.

I Have Considered the Lilies

I have considered the lilies

They never toil they only bloom

They never feel chilly, or tired, or silly

And they don’t need much room

I have considered the lilies

I have considered how they grow

Tell me, tell me how to be a lily

If you know

Oh lilies, toil not, neither do they spin

I'm gonna take my working papers

And turn them in

I'm handing over my pencil and pen

I won't be needing my broom again

I'll bloom by day, I'll bloom by night

And blooming will be my delight

White tigerlily still waterlily

See how they all dilly-dally

Look at the day lily, lemon lily, calla-lily

And the lovely little lilies of the valley

Oh lilies, toil not, neither do they spin

I'm gonna take my working papers

And turn them in

To be more splendid than Solomon

I'll walk around wearing the morning sun

The sun by day, the moon by night

And blooming will be my delight

It would be fun but I'm afraid that I would freeze

King Solomon was not arrayed like one of these

So lilies, I can't afford to dilly-dally

I've got to work for my cotton, work for my denim

Linen and damask and challis

Not like the day lily, lemon lily, calla-lily

And the lovely little lilies of the valley

I have considered the lilies

I have considered how they grow

Tell me, tell me how to be a lily

If you know