Friday, February 06, 2009

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest

Cranmer shall be speaking at a funeral tomorrow morning. He shall not be posting, because his dear friend deserves prayerful and undivided attention. Respect demands a pause in blogivities.

It is a sad fact of life that the people with the most beautiful spirits must some day leave this life. This remarkable man, a Cambridge music scholar of immeasurable talent, had a heart in which it was always Christmas but never winter. His favourite piano piece, which he loved to play, was Chopin's Prelude No15 in Db Major - 'Raindrop'. His favourite poem was Keats' ode 'To Autumn'.

His Grace thanks his readers and communicants for their understanding at this time.



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom - friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch - eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss`d cottage - trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o`erbrimm`d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
They hair soft - lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half - reap`d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider - press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft - dying day
And touch the stubble - plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river - sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full - grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge - crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden - croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

8 Comments:

Blogger Frugal Dougal said...

What a beautiful post. May God bless you and give your friend eternal rest.

7 February 2009 at 01:20  
OpenID BL@KBIRD said...

A lovely precis of your friends spirit well rendered.

My sympathy for your loss.

7 February 2009 at 05:13  
Blogger King Athelstan said...

Sympathies, may God be with Your late friend, and condolences to You His family and friends.

7 February 2009 at 07:50  
Blogger Morus said...

"[A man in] whose heart it was always Christmas but never winter"

If I am remembered half so well, I shall consider my life well lived.

My condolences on your loss.

7 February 2009 at 08:58  
Anonymous Preacher said...

With Deepest Sympathies my friend. Not gone but promoted to glory.

7 February 2009 at 11:54  
Anonymous non mouse said...

Methinks they can't make any more like your friend. Condolences to Your Grace.

7 February 2009 at 19:50  
Anonymous tiberswimmer said...

May your Grace's dear friend rest in peace.

8 February 2009 at 02:31  
Blogger Ayrdale said...

My/our darling mother died one month ago. My mother was a woman of faith, and her friend and parish priest and my other family members laid her to rest with love and dignity.
The permanence of her loss brings not Keats but Edna St. Vincent Millay to mind to me...

http://www.cscs.umich.edu/~crshalizi/Poetry/Millay/Dirge_without_Music.html

Sir, I commiserate with you.

8 February 2009 at 07:01  

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