Little Flute
This morning for Toastmasters we had a garden party at the gorgeous Marina House Inn and each of us read a poem. It was supremely civilized and idyllic.
I chose the poem below by Tagore, in honour of my musical rebirth. It literally brought a tear to my eye (yes, I'm sentimental about the whole thing.)
Little Flute
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
I chose the poem below by Tagore, in honour of my musical rebirth. It literally brought a tear to my eye (yes, I'm sentimental about the whole thing.)
Little Flute
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
1 Comments:
and another from Louisa May Alcott regarding the passing of H.D.Thoreau.
Thoreau's Flute
We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;
The Genius of the wood is lost."
Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath:
"For such as he there is no death;
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose.
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent
And turned to poetry life's prose.
The flute takes a passing breath of wind and turns it into so much more.
p.
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