Bienvenido al nuevo participante en el hilo y estupendas aportaciones del fin de semana

Vamos a ir completando ciclos que tenemos incompletos.

De Amor y vida de mujer, el lied nº 3 "Ich kann's nicht fassen, nicht glauben" ("No puedo creerlo")

Ich kann's nicht fassen, nicht glauben

Canta la helvética Lisa della Casa

http://open.spotify.com/track/6KgNCWjDIUc0EAlM9JNlEn

Sigo con Britten.


“On this Island” op. 11 – Let the Florid Music Praise!

Benjamin BRITTEN (1913-1976)
Text by W. H. Auden (1907-1973)
Let the florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty’s conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.
O but the unlov’d have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always; time will bring their hour:
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable death,
And my vows break
Before his look.

Si les parece, vamos a recrearnos con la escucha de dos preciosas mélodies de César Franck, interpretadas por el tenor canadiense, recientemente fallecido, Pierre Boutet.

Se trata de Lied, sobre un texto de Lucien Paté:

Pour moi sa main cueillait des roses
À ce buisson,
Comme elle encore à peine écloses,
Chère moisson.
La gerbe, hélas! en est fanée
Comme elle aussi;
La moissonneuse moissonée
Repose ici.
Mais sur la tombe qui vous couvre,
Ô mes amours!
Une églantine, qui s'entr'ouvre,
Sourit toujours.
Et, sous le buisson qui surplombe,
Quand je reviens,
Une voix me dit sous la tombe:
"Je me souviens."

y Nocturne, basada en un poema de Louis de Fourcaud:

Ô fraîche Nuit,
Nuit transparente,
Mystère sans obscurité,
La vie est noire et dévorante
Ô fraîche Nuit,
Nuit transparente.
Donne-moi ta placidité.

Ó belle Nuit.
Nuit étoilée.
Vers moi tes regards sont baissées.
Éclaire mon âme troublée,
Ô belle Nuit,
Nuit étoilée,
Mets ton sourire en mes pensers.

Ô sainte Nuit,
Nut taciturne,
Pleine de paix et de douceur.
Mon coeur bouillone comme une urne.
Ô sainte Nuit,
Nut taciturne,
Fais le silence dans mon coeur.

Ô grande Nuit,
Nuit solemnelle,
En qui tout est délicieux,
Prends mon être entier sous ton aile.
Ô grande Nuit,
Nuit solemnelle,
Vers le sommeil en mes yeux.

César Franck - Mélodies - Pierre Boutet

Lied nº 5 de Amor y vida de mujer, Helft mir, ihr Schwestern

Bożena Harasimowicz

Benjamin Britten / Peter Pears


The bonny Earl o' Moray

Language: English


Ye Hielands and ye Lowlands,
O where hae ye been?
Thay hae slain the Earl o' Moray,
And laid him on the green.

He was a braw gallant
And he rade at the ring;
And the bonnie Earl o' Moray
He might have been a king.

O lang will his Lady
Look frae the Castle Doune,
Ere she see the Earl o' Moray
Come soundin' thru' the toon . . .

O wae tae ye, Huntley,
And wherefore did ye sae?
I bade ye bring him wi' you
And forbade ye him to slay.

He was a braw gallant
And he played at the glove;
And the bonnie Earl o' Moray
He was the Queen's love.

http://open.spotify.com/track/3zMEWUfHojFW4AXofsUYFY

Hoy en BBC Radio 3:

Gerald Finley, Julius Drake

Schumann
Belsatzar
Die feindlichen Brüder
Abends am Strand
Die beiden Grenadiere

Ravel
Histoires Naturelles

Barber
The Daisies
Solitary Hotel
Bessie Bobtail
Nocturne

Ives
West London
In the Alley
Charlie Rutlage
Slugging a Vampire.

Dejo los enlaces:
Información - http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00zdh7w
Para escuchar - http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/bbc_radio_three

thank you. sobre todo tb. en nombre de santuzza!!

Ippolitov-Ivanov. De sus 4 Poemas de Rabindranath Tagore, el primero, Arms are Drawn to Arms. Canta Zara Dolukhanova.



Texto

http://open.spotify.com/track/3CptXAj1ckwlA7okzhEkMi
Britten / Pears

The ploughboy

A flaxen-headed cowboy, as simple as may be,
And next a merry ploughboy, I whistled o'er the lea;
But now a saucy footman, I strut in worsted lace,
And soon I'll be a butler, and [wag]1 my jolly face.
When steward I'm promoted, I'll [snip a]2 trademen's bill,
My master's coffers empty, my pockets for to fill;
When lolling in my chariot, so great a man I'll be,
You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea.

I'll buy votes at elections, but, when I've made the pelf,
I'll stand poll for the parliament, and then vote in myself;
Whatever's good for me, sir, I never will oppose;
When all my ayes are sold off, why then I'll sell my noes.
I'll [bawl]3, harangue, and paragraph, with speeches charm the ear;
And when I'm tired on my legs, then I'll sit down a peer;
In court or city honours, so great a man I'll be,
You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea.

Fabuloso. Lo acabo de estar oyendo. Gracias

Sigo con el ciclo de Ippolitov-Ivanov y Tagore. Don't Leave Without Saying Farewell.



Texto

Del malogrado Charles Tomlinson Griffes (1884-1920), podemos oir el tristísimo primer lied, "El lamento de Ian, the Proud", de su Opus 11 (Tres poemas de MacLeod), compuesto en 1918, interpretado por el barítono Marcus De Loach, con Thomas Bagwell al piano:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnvyhKFZtDI

What is this crying that I hear in the wind?
Is it the old sorrow and the old grief?
Or is it a new thing coming, a whirling leaf
About the gray hair of me who am weary and blind?
I know not what it is, but on the moor above the shore
There is a stone which the purple nets of heather bind,
And thereon is writ: She will return no more.
O blown, whirling leaf, and the old grief,
And wind crying to me who am old and blind!


¿Que es ese grito que oigo en el viento?
¿Es el viejo dolor y la antigua pena?
¿O es algo nuevo que llega, una hoja volandera
alrededor de mis cabellos grises, yo, que estoy agotado y ciego?
No sé lo que es, pero en la orilla del río
hay una piedra rodeada por una red púrpura de brezo
y en ella está escrito: “Ella no volverá”
¡Oh, hoja agitada, volandera, y la antigua pena,
y cómo me grita el viento que soy viejo y ciego!

http://open.spotify.com/track/1VjNjj2vwxRQTq3guoKjtW

Sweet Polly Oliver
Britten/Pears


Sweet Polly Oliver

Language: English


As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed,
A sudden strange fancy came into her head.
"Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove,
I'll 'list as a soldier, and follow my love".

So early next morning she softly arose
And dressed herself up in her dead brother's clothes.
She cut her hair close and she stained her face brown,
And went for a soldier to fair London Town.

Then up spoke the sergeant one day at his drill.
"Now who's good for nursing? A captain, he's ill".
"I'm ready", said Polly. To nurse him she's gone,
And finds it's her true love all wasted and wan.

The first week the doctor kept shaking his head,
"No nursing, young fellow, can save him", he said.
But when Polly Oliver had nursed him back to life,
He cried, "You have cherished him as if you were his wife".

Oh, then Polly Oliver, she burst into tears
And told the good doctor her hopes and her fears,
And very shortly after, for better or for worse,
The captain took joyfully his pretty soldier nurse.

La soprano Ilona Domnich nos presenta esta canción del compositor israelí Paul Ben-Haim, Ani Havazelet ha-Sharon (Soy el lirio del valle), adaptada del "Cantar de los Cantares":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTGvyP4ybeg

http://open.spotify.com/track/73fEbI9Fgur37Y7es3ibP0

There's none to soothe

Britten/Pears


There's none to soothe


There's none to soothe my soul to rest,
There's none my load of grief to share,
Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair.

The voice of joy no more can cheer,
The look of love no more can warm
Since mute for aye's that voice so dear,
And closed that eye alone could charm.