A Cycle of Songs, Op.68

Paroles

Soprano

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: the seed, the little seed they laugh’d at in the dark, Has ris’n and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk of spanless girth, that lays on ev’ry side a thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came; The leaves were wet with women’s tears: They heard A noise of songs they would not understand: They marked it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall’n them.selves. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came, The woodmen with their axes: Lo the tree! Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, Nor knew there dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glitt’ring axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. Our enemies have fall’n, The tops shall strike from star to star, The fangs shall move the stony bases of the world.

Alto

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: the seed, the little seed they laugh’d at in the dark, Has ris’n and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk of spanless girth, that lays on ev’ry side a thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came; The leaves were wet with women’s tears: They heard A noise of songs they would not understand: They marked it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall’n them.selves. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came, The woodmen with their axes: Lo the tree! Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, Nor knew there dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glitt’ring axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. Our enemies have fall’n, But this shall grow a night of Summer from the heat, And roll’d with music in the growing breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, The fangs shall move the stony bases of the world.

Tenor

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: the seed, the little seed they laugh’d at in the dark, Has ris’n and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk of spanless girth, that lays on ev’ry side a thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came; The leaves were wet with women’s tears: They heard A noise of songs they would not understand: They marked it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall’n them.selves. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came, The woodmen with their axes: Lo the tree! But we will make it faggots for the hearth, shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, And boats and bridges for the use of men. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, Nor knew there dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glitt’ring axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. Our enemies have fall’n, But this shall grow a night of Summer from the heat, a breath of Autumn, dropping fruits of pow’r; And roll’d with music in the growing breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, The fangs shall move the stony bases of the world.

Bass

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: the seed, the little seed they laugh’d at in the dark, Has ris’n and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk of spanless girth, that lays on ev’ry side a thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came; The leaves were wet with women’s tears: They heard A noise of songs they would not understand: They marked it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall’n them.selves. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They came, The woodmen with their axes: Lo the tree! But we will make it faggots for the hearth, shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, And boats and bridges for the use of men. Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: They struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, Nor knew there dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glitt’ring axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. Our enemies have fall’n, But this shall grow a night of Summer from the heat, a breath of Autumn, dropping fruits of pow’r; And roll’d with music in the growing breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, The fangs shall move the stony bases of the world.