Attracted to Gerard Manley Hopkins since college, I consider him still to be my favorite poet. 1989 was the centenary of his death, and I was asked to provide settings to poems of my choosing for a conference being held at St. Joseph’s University. Jackie sang, and Samuel Hsu was the pianist for “Spring and Fall,” “Penmaen Pool,” and “Henry Purcell.” Sam, the instigator (as always), insisted that I speak before the recital, and this gave me, as I recall, as much agita as anticipating the reception these songs might elicit from the international gathering of Hopkins scholars. I was concerned mostly with getting the notorious rhythms of the words “right”: a grail not to be found in any event, but I at least wanted to show them (including those who had written books on Hopkins’s rhythms) that I was aware of the issues.
I also wrote—why, I don’t remember—harmonizations to two melodies of Hopkins that he composed to Shakespeare’s “Who is Silvia?,” which I attempted, for this conference, in a putatively appropriate style contemporary to Hopkins himself.
In 2000, while Resident Composer for Jens Nygaard’s Jupiter Symphony in New York City, the opportunity arose to create orchestral settings for these. “Penmaen Pool” had since been recorded by Nancy Ellen Ogle on her compilation CD of contemporary composers, An Evening with Gerard Manley Hopkins. I don’t remember if it was because I now thought of that as a separate song, or that I was taken with “As kingﬁshers catch ﬁre,” or that the second song needed to have more energy (all of which was true), but I decided to replace the pool with the birds for the orchestral set, in this case with tenor soloist. Different singers became interested, and so I transposed the new set (with piano) as needed, now called, simply, Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Baritone Lawrence Indik sings them this Wednesday, January 27th at 7:30 pm, Rock Hall, Temple University, accompanied by Charles Abramovic. Also on the program, songs by Maurice Wright, Heidi Jacob, and David Carpenter.
Spring and Fall
To a young child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
As kingﬁshers catch ﬁre, dragonﬂies dráw ﬂáme
As kingﬁshers catch ﬁre, dragonﬂies dráw ﬂáme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung ﬁnds tongue to ﬂing out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
The poet wishes well to the divine genius of Purcell and praises him that, whereas other musicians have given utterance to the moods of man’s mind, he has, beyond that, uttered in notes the very make and species of man as created both in him and in all men generally.
Have, fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear
To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell,
An age is now since passed, since parted; with the reversal
Of the outward sentence low lays him, listed to a heresy, here.
Not mood in him nor meaning, proud ﬁre or sacred fear,
Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his might nursle:
It is the forgèd feature ﬁnds me; it is the rehearsal
Of own, of abrupt self there so thrusts on, so throngs the ear.
Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me, lay me! only I’ll
Have an eye to the sakes of him, quaint moonmarks, to his pelted plumage under
Wings: so some great stormfowl, whenever he has walked his while
The thunder-purple seabeach plumèd purple-of-thunder,
If a wuthering of his palmy snow-pinions scatter a colossal smile
Off him, but meaning motion fans fresh our wits with wonder.