Junior Recital
Wednesday Elaine Daiber, soprano March 4, 2012, 4:30 pm Kulas Recital Hall Eung Jung Lee, piano Concert No. 176
Three Facade Settings (Edith Sitwell) William Walton Daphne (1902–1983) Through Gilded Trellises Old Sir Faulk
Caldo Sangue Alessandro Scarlatti from Il Sedicia, re di Gerusalemme (1660–1725)
Fiançailles pour Rire (Louise de Vilmorin) Francis Poulenc La dame d’Andre (1899–1963) Dans l’herbe Il vole Mon cadavre est doux comme un gant Violon Fleurs
Please silence all electronic devices and refrain from the use of video cameras unless prior arrangements have been made with the performers. The use of flash cameras is prohibited. Thank you. Translations
Daphne Walton When green as a river was the barley, Green as a river the rye, I waded deep and began to parley With a youth whom I heard sigh. ‘I seek’, said he, ‘a lovely lady, A nymph as bright as a queen, Like a tree that drips with pearls her shady Locks of hair were seen; And all the rivers became her flocks Though their wool you cannot shear,
Because of the love of her flowing locks. The kingly sun like a swain Came strong, unheeding of her scorn, Wading in deeps where she has lain, Sleeping upon her river lawn And chasing her starry satyr train. She fled, and changed into a tree.- That lovely fair-haired lady. . . . And now I seek through the sere summer Where no trees are shady!’
Through gilded trellises Of the heat, Dolores, Inez, Manuccia, Isabel, Lucia, Mock time that flies. ‘Lovely bird, will you stay and sing. Flirting your sheened wing, - Peck with your beak, and cling To our balconies?’ They flirt their fans, flaunting – ‘O silence enchanting As music!’ then slanting Their eyes Like gilded or emerald grapes They take mantillas, capes, Hiding their simian shapes. Sighs Each lady, ‘Our spadille Is done’. . . . ‘Dance the quadrille From hell’s towers to Seville, Surprise Their siesta’, Dolores Said. Through gilded trellises Of the heat, spangles Pelt down through the tangles Of bell-flowers; each dangles Her castanets, shutters Fall while the heat mutters, With sounds like a mandolin Or tinkled tambourine. . . . Ladies, Times dies!
Old Sir Faulk Old Sir Faulk Tall as a stork, Before the honeyed fruits of dawn we ripe, would walk And stalk with a gun The reynard-coloured sun Among the pheasant-feathered corn the unicorn has torn, forlorn the Smock-faced sheep Sit And Sleep Periwigged as William and Mary, weep. . . . ‘Sally, Mary, Mattie, what’s the matter, why cry?’ The huntsman and reynard-coloured sun and I sigh ‘Oh, the nursery-maid Meg With a leg like a peg Chased the featherd dreams like hens and when they laid an egg In the sheepskin Meadows Where The serene King james would steer Horse and hounds, then he From the shade of a tree Picked it up as spoil to boil for nursery tea’, said the mourners. In the Corn, towers strain Feathered tall as a crane, And whistling down the feathered rain, old Noah goes again- And old dull mome With a head like a pome, Seeing the world as a bare egg Laid by a feathered air; Meg Would beg three of these For the nursery teas Of Japhet, Shem, and Ham; she gave it Underneath the trees Where the boiling Water Hissed Like the goose-king’s feathered daughter-kissed Pot and pan and copper kettle Put upon their proper mettle Lest the Flood begin again through these!
Warm blood, Scarlatti now bathing my breast as proof of the love I bear to my father, flow now, flow from me, I am drained and close to death! Perhaps one day you will rise again to exact your vengeance on the hand that wounded me; and the flame now fading inside me, warm blood, will burn more brightly in you.
Andres woman friend Poulenc Andrè does not know the woman whom he took by the hand today. Has she a heart for the tomorrows, and for the evening has she a soul?
On returning from a country ball did she go in her flowing dress to seek in the hay stacks the ring for the random betrothal?
Was she afraid, when night fell, haunted by the ghosts of the past, in her garden, when winter entered by the wide avenue?
He loved her for her colour, for her Sunday good humor. Will she fade on the white leaves of his album of better days? In the green grass I can say nothing more nor do anything for him. He died for his beautiful one he died a beautiful death outside under the tree if the Law in deep silence in open countryside in the grass. He died unnoticed crying out in his passing calling calling me. But as I was far from him and because his voice no longer carried he died alone in the woods beneath the tree of his childhood. And I can say nothing more nor do anything for him.
He Flies As the sun is setting it is reflected in the polished surface of my table it is the round cheese of the fable in the beak of my silver scissors.
But where is the crow? It flies.
I should like to sew but a magnet attracts all of my needles. On the square the skittle players pass the time with game after game.
But where is my lover? He flies.
I have a thief for a lover, the crow flies and my lover steals, the thief of my heart breaks his word and the thief of the cheese is not here. But where is happiness? It flies.
I weep under the weeping willow I mingle my tears with its leaves. I weep because I want to be desired. and I am not pleasing to my thief. But where then is love? It flies.
Find the rhyme for my lack of reason and by the roads of the countryside bring me back my flighty lover who takes hearts and drives me mad.
I wish that my thief would steal me
My corpse is as limp as a glove limp as a glove of a glace kid and my two hidden pupils make two white pebbles of my eyes.
Two white pebbles in my face two mutes in the silence still shadowed by a secret and heavy with the burden of things seen.
My fingers so often straying are joined in a saintly pose resting on the hollow of my groans at the centre of my arrested heart.
And my two feet are the mountains the last two hills I saw at the moment when I lost the race that the years win.
I still resemble myself children bear away the memory quickly, go, go, my life is done. My corpse is as limp as a glove.
Violin Enamoured couple with the misprized accents the violin and its player please me. Ah! I love these wailings long drawn out on the cord of uneasiness. In chords on the cords of the hanged at the hour when the Laws are silent the heart, formed like a strawberry, offers itself to love like and unknown fruit. Flowers Promised flowers, flowers held in your arms, flowers sprung from the parenthesis of a step, who brought you these flowers in winter powdered with the sand of the seas? Sand of your kisses, flowers of faded loves the beautiful eyes are ashes and in the fireplace a heart beribboned with sighs burns with its treasures pictures.