Where others’ plainsong rasps the air and jars
That harmony to which it might aspire,
Two-part invention, loudly screeching, mars
A flimsy manuscript that’s born of ire.
Yet you, whose chant beguiles my dirge within,
With added fortune truly worth the name,
Will fashion soothing pulses on my skin
And sing so sweet the birds shall die of shame.
For some, the birthing blood of music rests
In dark discord where bitter rankling stains
Biopsy of lineage. Yet, perverse, attests
Denial of which; its wriggling whelp disdains.
Such sucklings we then, who, with vision joint,
Sing on in love ... with heed to counterpoint.
That harmony to which it might aspire,
Two-part invention, loudly screeching, mars
A flimsy manuscript that’s born of ire.
Yet you, whose chant beguiles my dirge within,
With added fortune truly worth the name,
Will fashion soothing pulses on my skin
And sing so sweet the birds shall die of shame.
For some, the birthing blood of music rests
In dark discord where bitter rankling stains
Biopsy of lineage. Yet, perverse, attests
Denial of which; its wriggling whelp disdains.
Such sucklings we then, who, with vision joint,
Sing on in love ... with heed to counterpoint.
