07 December, 2005

Dreamless bed

One of my all-time favourite films is 'The Long Day Closes' by Terence Davies. It takes its name from a poem by Henry Chorley, later set to music by Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame), and which I reckon I'd like to be sung at my funeral. Well, we're all allowed to think upon such morbid a topic occasionally - particularly when, like me today, you're off work ill and have plenty of legitimate brooding time:

No star is o'er the lake
Its pale watch keeping,
The moon is half awake
Through grey mist creeping.
The last red leaves fall round
The porch of roses,
The clock hath ceased to sound,
The long day closes.

Sit by the silent hearth
In calm endeavour
To count the sounds of mirth
Now dumb forever.
Heed not how hope believes
And fate disposes
Shadow is round the eaves,
The long day closes.

The lighted windows dim
Are fading slowly.
The fire that was so trim
Now quivers lowly.
Go to the dreamless bed
Where grief reposes.
Thy book of toil is read,
The long day closes.


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