Like as the waves (Michael Gray): Difference between revisions
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==Music files== | ==Music files== | ||
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*{{PostedDate|2016-10-21}} {{CPDLno|41504}} [[Media:BoS_60_Like_as_the_Waves.pdf|{{pdf}}]] | *{{PostedDate|2016-10-21}} {{CPDLno|41504}} [[Media:BoS_60_Like_as_the_Waves.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:Gray Like as the BoS 60.mp3|{{mp3}}]] | ||
{{Editor|Michael Gray|2016-10-21}}{{ScoreInfo|Letter (landscape)|6|193}}{{Copy|Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives}} | {{Editor|Michael Gray|2016-10-21}}{{ScoreInfo|Letter (landscape)|6|193}}{{Copy|Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives}} | ||
:'''Edition notes:''' Part of an ongoing collection "Book of Sonnets" for SAB, piano | :'''Edition notes:''' Part of an ongoing collection "Book of Sonnets" for SAB, piano | ||
Revision as of 21:06, 15 October 2020
Music files
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- (Posted 2016-10-21) CPDL #41504:
- Editor: Michael Gray (submitted 2016-10-21). Score information: Letter (landscape), 6 pages, 193 kB Copyright: CC BY NC ND
- Edition notes: Part of an ongoing collection "Book of Sonnets" for SAB, piano
General Information
Title: Like as the waves
Composer: Michael Gray
Lyricist: William Shakespeare
Number of voices: 3vv Voicing: SAB
Genre: Secular, Partsong
Language: English
Instruments: Piano
First published: 2014
Description: Part of an ongoing collection "Book of Sonnets" for SAB, piano
External websites: http://www.graymichael.com
Original text and translations
English text
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being-crowned
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
William Shakespeare (Sonnet LX)