The spring is coming! hear it blow!
The rain and wind have cleared the snow;
And I am going to play my fill
With sunlight on the windy hill.
And I am going to laugh and run,
And be the comrade of the sun;
And, like the wildflowers, wink my eyes
At him and at the springtime skies.
And I am going to dance and sing
And match the swallow on the wing,
And put my arms about each tree,
And kiss it as the sun does me.
And I am going to lie face down
Upon the hillside, far from town,
And hug it as the sunlight does,
And watch the pussy-willows fuzz.
And I am going to laugh and run,
And be the comrade of the sun;
And, like the wildflowers, wink my eyes
At him and at the springtime skies.
the stars never leave. Weaving,
water and ink, salt
to dry what bleeds
over, somewhere she is saying
what makes us too afraid. That the sun
is not alone, we could trace the hunter,
the bull, the dipper if only
we looked far enough. Somewhere,
our light. Somewhere, a looking.
The cold fields and a road
that hasn’t given us a name, there
has been death here, and love,
with what was left over. We
are most clear here, past the blackness.
Spirit of Song! whose whispers
Delight my pensive brain,
When will the perfect harmony
Ring through my feeble strain?
When will the rills of melody
Be widened to a stream!
When will the bright and gladsome Day
Succeed this morning dream?
"Mortal," the spirit whispered,
"If thou wouldst truly win
The race thou art pursuing,
Heed well the voice within:
And it shall gently teach thee
To read thy heart, and know
No human strain is perfect,
However sweet it flow.
The souls of Poet-Dreamers
Touch heaven on their way;
And if thou readest truly,
As surely shalt thou find
That truths, like rills, though diverse,
Are choicest in their kind.
With the light of Song to guide them
It should be always Day.
Robert Pherigo, piano
“Thou hast existed as a part. Thou shalt disappear in that which produced
thee. But rather thou shalt be received back into its seminal principle by
transmutation. Many grains of frankincense on the same altar: one falls
before, another falls after; but it makes no difference… Do not act as if
thou wert going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over thee. While
thou livest, while it is in thy power, be good.” - Translation by George Long
“In the spring fields, even though they may or may not live until fall, the
old roots of the bush clover are burned.” - Translation by Yuji Iwakaiwa
“Becoming oneself is just moving where one finds oneself. Becoming is
moving from a place, but becoming oneself is moving at this place.” - Translation by Kota Hayton
“Or on the other hand, man meets what exists and becomes as what is
over against him, always simply a single being and each thing simply as
being. What exists is opened to him in happenings, and what happens
affects him as what is. Nothing is present for him except this one being,
but it implicates the whole world.” - Translation by Ronald Gregor Smith
Matthew Bennett, violin;
Yi-miau Huang, violin;
Lulu Wu, viola;
Audrey Herren, cello;
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Matthew Bennett, violin;
Yi-miau Huang, violin;
Lulu Wu, viola;
Audrey Herren, cello;
Katie Brunkhorst
Lucy Conklin
Katie Fischer
Breezy Jeffries
Stella Dayrit Roden
Jessica Seidler
Morgan Gibson
Page Gravely
Kirsten Hyde
Becca Parsons
Kaitlyn York
Joshua Donaldson
Kota Hayton
Adam Petz
Nick Schneider
Nathan Sullins
Will Weyhrauch
Timothy Billingsly
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JD Daniel
Chad Fischer
Carter Hintz
Robby Rusca
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Jessica Stone*
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