Loe I haue made a Calender for euery yeare . .
And if I marked well the starres reuolution,
It shall continewe till the worlds dissolution . . .
Goe lyttle Calender, thou hast a free passeporte,
Goe but a lowly gate emongste the meaner sorte.
Dare not to match thy pype with Tityrus his style,
Nor with the Pilgrim that the Ploughman playde a whyle:
But followe them farre off, and their high steppes adore,
The better please, the worse despise, I aske nomore.
Colin, a shepherd’s boy, bemoans his unrequited love for Rosalind and likens his state to the barren season around him. Bereft of hope, he breaks his pipe in pieces.
Recurring throughout György Kurtág’s oeuvre is an eight-note melody which has lyrics, though to my knowledge they are never actually sung: “Flowers we are, frail flowers.” Albumleaf 151 presents a variation of this melody. Notes 1-5, 10-11, and 14 are Kurtág’s. The others are mine.
R. David Salvage composes and performs all the music on this blog, unless otherwise indicated.