Clarke: 5 Selections

Rebecca Clarke (1886-1979)

5 Selections (c. 1920)

Emily Hamilton, soprano

Kerry Agnew, piano

Recorded on April 26, 2023 in Pollack Hall at the Schulich School of Music of McGill University in Montreal, Quebec during Emily's Final Bachelor's Recital

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1. Infant Joy

"I have no name:

I am but two days old."

What shall I call thee?

"I happy am,

Joy is my name."

Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty Joy!

Sweet Joy, but two days old.

Sweet Joy I call thee:

Thou dost smile,

I sing the while,

Sweet joy befall thee!

- William Blake (1757-1827)

2. Shy One

Shy one, shy one,

Shy one of my heart,

She moves in the firelight

Pensively apart.

She carries in the dishes

And lays them in a row.

To an isle in the water

With her would I go.

She carries in the candles,

And lights the curtained room,

Shy in the doorway

And shy in the gloom;

And shy as a rabbit,

Helpful and shy.

To an isle in the water

With her would I fly.

3. The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths

Enwrought with golden and silver light

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

4. Down by the Salley Gardens

Down by the Salley Gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the Salley Gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

5. A Dream

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place

Near no accustomed hand;

And they had nailed the boards above her face,

The peasants of that land,

And, wond'ring, planted by her solitude

A cypress and a yew:

I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood,

Man had no more to do:

"She was more beautiful than thy first love

This lady by the trees."

And gazed upon the mournful stars above,

And heard the mournful breeze.

- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)