(sonnet # LIX)
LIX
It's Mendelssohn's Italian makes me fly.
Th'initial movement passion rouses, soars
So irresistibly, light dances, pours
Like horses galloping so furious, aye;
And breathless with excitement, countryside
With rolling vistas, rich and scenic, shores
I've never seen flit by; winding down before
I'm finished, starry-eyed....explosive dies.
Brief silence, then methodic'lly it plods;
Its life has aged? and never quite returns.
If Italy this symphony displays
In vivid colour passionate, it's gods
Still rule, its wine and ancient culture earns
Our love, and readily our passions sways.
30Mar11
-
Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 12th, 2011 20:38
- Comment from author about the poem: Originally this was supposed to showcase my classical music loves, but beginning with a description of the first movement of Mendelssohn's Italian it never progressed past that piece.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.