John Herbert Foulds: Mood-Pictures (The Lied and Art Song Texts Page: Texts and Translations to Lieder, mélodies, canzoni, and other classical vocal music)


The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood. 
The green leaves have grown golden, saturated with light. 
And now, at the sudden whirling of the lances of gold, 
a cloud of wild-doves arises from the pines, 
wheels against the sunblaze, and flashes out of sight, 
flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink. 
I know the green hidden nests of the wild-doves, 
when ye come again, O whirling lances of gold!

?. Evoë

Language: English

Authorship

Fiona Macleod (1885-1905) [pseudonym]

From the Hills of Dream

The Silence of Amor

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Oceanward, the sea-horses sweep magnificently, 
champing and whirling white foam about their green flanks, 
and tossing on high their manes of sunlit rainbow-gold, 
dazzling white and multitudinous far as sight can reach. 
O champing horses of my soul, toss, 
toss on high your sunlit manes, 
your manes of rainbow-gold, 
dazzling white and multitudinous: 
for I too rejoice, rejoice!

?. The shadowy woodlands

Language: English

Authorship

Fiona Macleod (1885-1905) [pseudonym]

From the Hills of Dream

The Silence of Amor

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Above the shadowy woodlands 
I hear the voice of the cuckoo, 
sailing like a silver skiff 
upon the moonflood. 
I hear the far-off plaint of the cuckoo 
sink deep through the moonshine 
above the shadowy woodlands. 
At last, in the dense shadow of the wood, 
the moonlight sleeps.

?. Orchil

Language: English

Authorship

Fiona Macleod (1885-1905) [pseudonym]

From the Hills of Dream

The Silence of Amor


I dreamed of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth, 
in a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. 
With one hand she weaves life upward through the grass; 
with the other she weaves death downward through the mould; 
and the sound of the weaving is Eternity, 
and the name of it in the green world is Time. 
And, through all, Orchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, 
that passeth not, though its soul is Change. 
This is my comfort, O Beauty that art of Time, 
who am faint and hopeless in the strong sound 
of that other weaving, where Orchil, the dim goddess, 
sits dreaming at her loom under the brown earth.

?. The reed player

Language: English

Authorship

Fiona Macleod (1885-1905) [pseudonym]

From the Hills of Dream

The Silence of Amor

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I saw one put a hollow reed to his lips. 
It was a forlorn, sweet air that he played, 
an ancient forgotten strain learned 
of a shepherding woman upon the hills. 
The Song of Songs it was that he played: 
and the beating of hearts was heard, and I heard sighs, 
and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell.
"Play me a song of Death," I said. 
Then he, who had the hollow reed at his lips smiled, 
and he played again the Song of Songs.