The Prelude: Book One Introduction Songtext
Marianne Faithfull
von She Walks In Beauty (with Warren Ellis)
The Prelude: Book One Introduction Songtext
Oh, there is blessing in this gentle breeze
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than to me
Escaped from the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free
Free as a bird to settle where I will
What dwelling shall receive me?
In what vale shall be my harbour?
Underneath what grove shall I take up my home?
And what clear stream shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me
With a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty
I look about and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud
I cannot miss my way, I breathe again
Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
Come fast upon me, it is shaken off
That burthen of my own unnatural self
The heavy weight of many a weary day
Not mine, and such as it were not made for me
Long months of peace
If such bold word accord with any promises of human life Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect, whither shall I turn
By road or pathway or through trackless field
Up hill or down or shall some floating thing
Upon the river point me out my course?
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than to me
Escaped from the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free
Free as a bird to settle where I will
What dwelling shall receive me?
In what vale shall be my harbour?
Underneath what grove shall I take up my home?
And what clear stream shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me
With a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty
I look about and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud
I cannot miss my way, I breathe again
Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
Come fast upon me, it is shaken off
That burthen of my own unnatural self
The heavy weight of many a weary day
Not mine, and such as it were not made for me
Long months of peace
If such bold word accord with any promises of human life Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect, whither shall I turn
By road or pathway or through trackless field
Up hill or down or shall some floating thing
Upon the river point me out my course?
