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Vertonung des Lebens von Henry W. Longfellow (amerikanischer Dichter des 19. Jahrhunderts) inkl. Einbezug von Passagen aus zwei seiner bekanntesten Werke. Eine Minute im Song entspricht 10 Jahren von Henrys Leben. Lebensgeschichte unter:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! ?
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Trust no Future, howe‘er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o‘erhead!
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! ?
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Trust no Future, howe‘er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o‘erhead!
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
