A Melody of Schubert
From out the orchestra sighs a sound, which rings at first like a still, choked down whining, as if endless sorrow had been stored up and would tremble forth mutely upon your lips, and would breathe out from you without a sound.
And like a sinner who tells his sin, his heart beating and his limbs a-tremble, the music now plaintively speaks and the tune now is wafted more melancholy and fatigued and cries silently, repentantly now like a child.
And the prayer becomes crushed, more soft, and a reproach is mingled now with the plaint, and the dark melancholy is wafted about and awakens in the heart that dumb gnawing, which is felt in the evening, late, at the last Atonement-day prayer:
The day is dying, the sun wrestles with night, the many coloured sky is tinted upon the window-panes; weary from the fast, after the battle of feelings you look up above, freed and resigned, and feel happy like one who sinks away powerless.
And like a sinner who tells his sin, his heart beating and his limbs a-tremble, the music now plaintively speaks and the tune now is wafted more melancholy and fatigued and cries silently, repentantly now like a child.
And the prayer becomes crushed, more soft, and a reproach is mingled now with the plaint, and the dark melancholy is wafted about and awakens in the heart that dumb gnawing, which is felt in the evening, late, at the last Atonement-day prayer:
The day is dying, the sun wrestles with night, the many coloured sky is tinted upon the window-panes; weary from the fast, after the battle of feelings you look up above, freed and resigned, and feel happy like one who sinks away powerless.
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