A John Clare Calendar - Geoff Allan

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"Four Seasonal and pastoral poems by John Clare, "the quintessential Romantic poet". Autumn, Winter, Spring, Summer. Set for 4 part SATB choir and piano."

⌛ Period → Contemporary ◈ Genre → Cantata

♯ Key G major

⁄ Time Signature 6/8

♬ Voicing → SATB

◆ Difficulty

Advanced

↕ Range D1 – D6

¶ Language → English

Measures 385

Texture Homophonic

Parts 6

Instruments SATB

Pages 44

CPDL # 69783

Editor Geoff Allan

Posted 2022-06-23

License Personal

♫Pitch Ranges

D4 – A5

A3 – D5

D3 – A4

G2 – E4

MusicXML Part

D1 – F#4

¶Lyrics / Text

'''by John Clare (1793 – 1864)''' '''1. Autumn''' The Spring is gone, the Summer-beauty wanes, Like setting sunbeams, in their last decline; As evening shadows, lingering on the plains, Gleam dim and dimmer till they cease to shine: The busy bee hath humm'd himself to rest; Flowers dry to seed, that held the sweets of Spring; Flown is the bird, and empty is the nest, His broods are rear'd, no joys are left to sing. There hangs a dreariness about the scene, A present shadow of a bright has been. Ah, sad to prove that Pleasure's golden springs, Like common fountains, should so quickly dry, And be so near allied to vulgar things!-- The joys of this world are but born to die. ---- '''2. Winter''' The small wind whispers through the leafless hedge Most sharp and chill, where the light snowy flakes Rest on each twig and spike of wither'd sedge, Resembling scatter'd feathers;--vainly breaks The pale split sunbeam through the frowning cloud, On Winter's frowns below--from day to day Unmelted still he spreads his hoary shroud, In dithering pride on the pale traveller's way, Who, croodling, hastens from the storm behind Fast gathering deep and black, again to find His cottage-fire and corner's sheltering bounds; Where, haply, such uncomfortable days Make musical the wood-sap's frizzling sounds, And hoarse loud bellows puffing up the blaze. ---- 3. '''Spring (A Spring Morning)''' The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells, In freshness breathing over hills and dells; O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings, And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs. Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free From the bold rifling of the amorous bee. The happy time of singing birds is come, And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home; Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove, And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love. The foxes play around their dens, and bark In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark. The flowers join lips below; the leaves above