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Pachelbel
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Music The swiftness of the pen, on a cold winters eve,
A touch of God’s breath in the night; Canon in D.
The high, sad, slow beginning note of the violin,
The low repetition of the piano at the measures end,
Then the oboes sang their song of desire,
The cello rang its open fire.
Strings, harp, the pluck of the lute,
The high-toned melody of the flute.
The flight of the eighth notes singing strong,
The harpsichord holds the next note, slow, long.
This, this triumphant masterpiece,
Made me fall straight down to my knees.
All in a second, swept away,
The harmony spares no time to save.
What was he thinking, on that night long ago,
As he sat, and he sat by the fire and wrote.
No one has ever made so great a symphony,
No one ever a better melody,
None the world over, you shall see,
There is none better than Canon in D.
