Manual Woodland murmurs from Siegfried - Score

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Album 2 Wagner Richard. Orchestral excerpts 1 Wagner Richard. Album Wagner Richard. Highlights Wagner Richard. And tell me, have we won this war or not? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.

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You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead. Groping along the tunnel, step by step, He winked his prying torch with patching glare From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.

Wagner ~ The Ring - Forest Murmurs

Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; And he, exploring fifty feet below The rosy gloom of battle overhead. Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. Alone he staggered on until he found Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair To the dazed, muttering creatures underground Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.

At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step. And my slow heart said, "You must kill; you must kill: Soldier, soldier, morning is red. They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay: And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns In winter trenches, cowed and glum With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain.

No one spoke of him again. ATTACK At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glowering sun Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud.

O Jesu, make it stop! Things seemed all light at first. We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed, And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps And trunks, face downward in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden and bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, Bulged, clotted heads, slept in the plastering slime.

Wagner Orchestral Excerpts from the Operas | kwahicaninban.gq

And then the rain began,—the jolly old rain! A yawning soldier knelt against the bank, Staring across the morning blear with fog; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they start'd with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke.

He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape,—loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. An officer came blundering down the trench: "Stand-to and man the fire-step! Gasping and bawling, "Fire-step Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front.

And started blazing wildly Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. One man told me he had never seen so many dead before. No, no; hfc wouldn't count them any more The dead have done with pain: They've choked; they can't come back to life again. When Dick was killed last week he looked like that, Flapping along the fire-step like a fish, After the blazing crump had knocked him flat As many as ever you wish.

Don't count 'em; they're too many.

Prom 68: Marc Albrecht conducts Goerke, Gould and the RPO as ‘Wagner Night’ returns

Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny? He goes Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders, "Could anything be worse than this? Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs The surgeon seemed So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, "You must keep still, my lad.

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The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, And calling out for "Dickie. O Dickie, don't go out" I fell asleep They have challenged Death and dared him face to face. You'd see me with my puffy petulant face, Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, Reading the Roll of Honour. From the blind darkness I had heard his crying And blundered in. With puzzled, patient face A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying To stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. And, all because his brother had gone West, Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief Moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling Half-naked on the floor.

In my belief Such men have lost all patriotic feeling. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns: He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.

But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. Yes, most vivid!

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I am writing A little book called Europe on the Rack , Based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. I hope I've caught the feeling of 'the Line,' And the amazing spirit of the troops. By Jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine! I watched one daring beggar looping loops, Soaring and diving like some bird of prey. And through it all I felt that splendour shine Which makes us win. Bands played and flags were flying, And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street To cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, And hear the music of returning feet.

Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought, This moment is the finest.

Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel. At last the boys had found a cushy job. That was good! I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. How did you do them in?

Come, don't be shy: You know I love to hear how Germans die, Downstairs in dug-outs. I know your record.