Posted by Admin on 27 January 2008, 12:00 am
O can it be that mortal voice,
so much of wonder may achieve;
that told ’twere an Olympian’s choice,
I could but marvel, and believe?
Elixir tipped, the true notes throng,
like arrows from Diana’s bow;
in scintillating shafts of song,
that gods and Donizetti know.
The role, methinks, was aptly named;
recalling stream and verdant mead,
where wood-nymphs sang to notes untamed,
evoked by Pan’s seductive reed,
your cadences so clear and sweet,
those sounds enchanting now repeat.
T. C. Hudson
10th April 1948
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council