Andante Con Moto
Like a thread of gold lightning that connects and reveals the summits of lofty cloud ranges at midnight, this melody connects and reveals the high places of my life.
When first we told our love, my dear, we played this music with our two souls vibrating as one.
It was graved in the gold band of betrothal I slipped upon your arm that radiant afternoon in Passy.
To its strains our lives were joined that foggy London noon.
It helped us over our young years of struggle. When we were happiest we played it in celebration.
Like a thread of gold lightning it ran across the cover of my first real book — inspired by you.
And that last time it sounded loveliest of all — the night before you died.
After black months of misery I played it with friends.
The images it evoked were overwhelming: I could scarcely hold the bow.
But suddenly in the midst of the music — you came back.
Since then you never fail to come whenever I call.
When all is silent about me sometimes I can almost touch your dear, spiritual hand, almost hear your thrilling voice, almost breathe the fragrance of your hair.
But when I am playing our melody, then truly do I feel the softness of your warm wrist across my shoulders, and know that your fingers are caressing old Gaspar, the viol-like quaint 'cello who has been, through everything, our faithful friend.
To-night when I played our Andante you were there, so near, so beautiful and confident and poignantly sweet that I thought my heart would break with pride and tenderness and passionate longing.
When first we told our love, my dear, we played this music with our two souls vibrating as one.
It was graved in the gold band of betrothal I slipped upon your arm that radiant afternoon in Passy.
To its strains our lives were joined that foggy London noon.
It helped us over our young years of struggle. When we were happiest we played it in celebration.
Like a thread of gold lightning it ran across the cover of my first real book — inspired by you.
And that last time it sounded loveliest of all — the night before you died.
After black months of misery I played it with friends.
The images it evoked were overwhelming: I could scarcely hold the bow.
But suddenly in the midst of the music — you came back.
Since then you never fail to come whenever I call.
When all is silent about me sometimes I can almost touch your dear, spiritual hand, almost hear your thrilling voice, almost breathe the fragrance of your hair.
But when I am playing our melody, then truly do I feel the softness of your warm wrist across my shoulders, and know that your fingers are caressing old Gaspar, the viol-like quaint 'cello who has been, through everything, our faithful friend.
To-night when I played our Andante you were there, so near, so beautiful and confident and poignantly sweet that I thought my heart would break with pride and tenderness and passionate longing.
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