Anton von Webern (1883-1945)

The lion rampant, sickle in one paw,
Grape-vine in the other,
And a fish poised, swimming upstream;
That was their coat of arms,
Tyrolean seigneurs, reared to duty and honour,
Among the hills of Lower Carinthia.
From the high meadows the lad would gaze out
Across the plains to the mountains,
Breathing pure serene space;
Occasionally, a rainbow soared above the earth,
And voluptuous forests lit with unearthly glow,
As he opened his arms wide to embrace the universe,
Laughing demi-god, in love with clarity and order.
At haymaking time, he toiled in the fields,
Transported by rhythm, in happy communion
With the workers,
Then rode home in the evening
Like a king, atop the laden wagon.
His mother sang in the gloaming,
Playing the piano, while he sat beside her, rapt,
Sure that he could never die, nor come to any harm.

Thin, stooped, and shy, like a librarian,
He hid the stillness of a saint,
Grey eyes introspecting intensely,
Never losing hope in the human.
The strictest discipline held the greatest freedom;
Thus he surrendered to a guru,
To be broken and recreated, shaped in his image,
Both loving and fearing, bound through the years,
As their little band of pioneers gathered, united,
Round the master, facing the world’s incomprehension,
Derided by philistines and fogies.

Each spring he would trek into the mountains,
Just to see the narcissus fields in bloom, and revel
In glaciers, and pine woods after rain,
And drink from cold clear streams and waterfalls,
And feel his mother’s presence, gently healing.
Hiking high and far, rucksack on back,
Doggedly driving himself upward and on,
He would seek out the rarest heights,
Breathing the pure air, the solitude,
Setting out each time to arrive somewhere new,
A new sound, a different space, music unheard-of,
Whatever summer’s harvest might bring from silence.
In nature he found the trance of love,
Absorbed in every detail, mesmerised
By longing for perfection.
Alone, he lived each hour with zest,
Floating in space, living each detail of his music,
In the rigorous search for truth,
Which one could never unriddle, only believe in.
Drenched in summer’s swell of grass and flowers,
He lay down, face to the ground,
Digging his hands into the soil,
Breathing deeply, enraptured,
Feeling the growth of all creatures, the fire in the roots,
Remorseless evolution’s harmonies.
Yet, always he returned to the village churchyard
To stand at his mother’s grave, grieving,
And dedicate each coming work to her.

War’s end, in a mountain village:
Remote from the world, never more naked
And alone, nor closer to God,
He gazed, from the bench behind the old church,
Above the headstones to the snowfields
And granite spires beyond,
And strolled though evergreens above the castle,
Contemplating mosses, lichens and fungi,
Thrilled by multiplicity and oneness.
September days held him blue and pure,
The quiet valley promising fresh music.
How could he know the mischance
Death was keeping for him,
A fatal mistake in the dark?
In just a few days he too would lie
In that churchyard, under the mountains,
Turning into rocks and trees and snow.