Thursday, July 18, 2024 at 3:15 p.m.
Athenaeum Hotel Parlor
Kelsey Watts, Soprano
Alexander Granito, Baritone
with Rick Hoffenberg, Carol Rausch, and Allison Voth, pianists
Afternoon of Song
July 18 - 19, 2024
An Afternoon of Song
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791):
Papageno/Papagena Duet from Die Zauberflöte, K. 620
Ms. Watts and Mr. Granito with Mr. Hoffenberg
Gioachino Rossini (1792-1868):
La fioraia Fiorentina
Paolo Tosti (1846-1916):
Non t'amo più
Ms. Watts with Ms. Rausch
Paolo Tosti (1846-1916):
L'ultimo bacio
La serenata
Mr. Granito with Mr. Hoffenberg
Ricky Ian Gordon (b. 1956)
Will there really be a morning?
Joy
Ms. Watts with Mr. Hoffenberg
Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958):
from Songs of Travel
Let beauty awake
The roadside fire
Youth and love
Mr. Granito with Ms. Voth
Richard Strauss (1846-1949):
Ständchen, Op. 17/2
Allerseelen, Op. 10/8
Ms. Watts with Ms. Voth
Franz Schubert (1797-1828):
from Winterreise, D. 911
7. Auf dem Flusse
5. Der Lindenbaum
4. Erstarrung
Mr. Granito with Ms. Rausch
Franz Lehár (1870-1948):
Duet, "Lippen schweigen," from Die lustige Witwe
Ms. Watts and Mr. Granito with Ms. Voth
Biographies
Translations
| Text | Translations |
| Pa-Pa-Pa-Pageno Poem by Emanuel Schikaneder | Pa-Pa-Pa-Pageno Translation by Opera-Arias.com |
| PAPAGENO. Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Papagena! PAPAGENA Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Pa - Papageno. PAPAGENO Bist du mir nun ganz gegeben? PAPAGENA Nun bin ich dir ganz gegeben. PAPAGENO Nun so sey mein liebes Weibchen! PAPAGENA Nun so sey mein Herzenstäubchen! BEYDE Welche Freude wird das seyn, Wenn die Götter uns bedenken, Unsrer Liebe Kinder schenken, So liebe kleine Kinderlein. PAPAGENO Erst einen kleinen Papageno. PAPAGENA Dann eine kleine Papagena. PAPAGENO Dann wieder einen Papageno. PAPAGENA Dann wieder eine Papagena. BEYDE Es ist das höchste der Gefühle, Wenn viele, viele Pa, pa, geno Pa, pa, gena der Eltern Sorgen werden sein | PAPAGENO Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papagena! PAPAGENA Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papageno! PAPAGENO Are you really all mine now? PAPAGENA Now I really am all yours. PAPAGENO So now be my darling little wife! PAPAGENA So now be the little dove of my heart! BOTH What a pleasure that will be, when the gods remember us, crown our love with children, such dear little children! PAPAGENO First a little Papageno! PAPAGENA Then a little Papagena! PAPAGENO Then another Papageno! PAPAGENA Then another Papagena! BOTH It is the greatest feeling that many, many Pa-Pa-Papagenos, Pa-Pa-Papagenas may be a blessing to their parents. |
| La fioraia fiorentina Poem by Unidentified Authorship | The Florentine flower girl Translation by Laura Prichard |
| I più bei fior comprate, fanciulli, amanti e spose: son fresche le mie rose, non spiran che l'amor. Ahime! Soccorso implora mia madre, poveretta e da me sola aspetta del pan e non dell'or. | The most beautiful flowers [you can] buy, children, lovers, and newlyweds: my roses are fresh, [they] don’t die like love [does]. Alas! Help, implores my mother, poor little [thing] and from me she hopes only for bread and not for gold. |
| Non t'amo più Poem by Carmelo Errico | I don't love you anymore Translation by Madeleine Gotschlich |
| Ricordi ancora il dì che c'incontrammo, Le tue promesse le ricordi ancor...? Folle d'amore io ti seguii ...ci amammo, E accanto a te sognai, folle d'amor. Sognai felice, di carezze a baci Una catena dileguante in ciel; Ma le parole tue... furon mendaci... Perchè l'anima tua è fatta di gel. Te ne ricordi ancor? Te ne ricordi ancor? Or la mia fede, il desiderio immenso Il mio sogno d'amor...non sei più tu: I tuoi baci non cerco, a te non penso... Sogno un altro ideal; non t'amo più. Nei cari giorni che passamo insieme Io cosparsi di fiori il tuo sentier: Tu fosti del mio cor l'unica speme Tu della mente l'unico pensier. Tu m'hai visto pregare, impallidire, Piangere tu m'hai visto innanzi a te: Io, sol per appagare un tuo desire, Avrei dato il mio sangue a la mia fè... Te ne ricordi ancor? Te ne ricordi ancor? Or la mia fede, il desiderio immenso Il mio sogno d'amor...non sei più tu: I tuoi baci non cerco, a te non penso... Sogno un altro ideal; non t'amo più. | Do you still remember the day that we met; Do you still remember your promises? Crazy from love I followed you, we were enamored with each other And I dreamed next to you, crazy from love. I dreamed, happily, of caresses and kisses A chain fading away into the sky: But your words were misleading, Because your soul is made of ice. Do you still remember? Do you still remember? Now my faith, my immense desire; My dream of love isn’t you anymore: I don’t search for your kisses, I don’t think of you. I dream of another ideal; I don’t love you anymore. In the dear days that we spent together I scattered flowers at your feet You were the only hope of my heart You were the only thought in my mind You watched me beg, turning pale You watched me cry before you Only to satisfy your desire, I Had given my blood and my faith. Do you still remember? Do you still remember? Now my faith, my immense desire; My dream of love isn’t you anymore: I don’t search for your kisses, I don’t think of you. I dream of another ideal; I don’t love you anymore. |
| L'ultimo bacio Poem by Emilio Praga | The Last Kiss Translation by Betsy Schwarm |
| Se tu lo vedi gli dirai che l'amo, che l'amo ancora come ai primi dì, che nei languidi sogni ancor lo chiamo, lo chiamo ancor come se fosse qui. E gli dirai che colla fé tradita Tutto il gaudio d'allor non mi rapì; E gli dirai che basta alla mia vita l'ultimo bacio che l'addio finì! Nessun lo toglie dalla bocca mia l'ultimo bacio che l'addio finì. Ma se vuoi dargli un altro in compagnia Digli che l'amo, e che l'aspetto qui. | If you see him, tell him I love him, Just as I did in the early days. In languid dreams, I still call out his name, I call as if he were still here, And tell him that, even with betrayed faith, The joy of that time is not taken from me; And tell him that it is enough for my life, That last kiss that ended in farewell! No one takes it from my lips, That last kiss that ended in farewell. But if you wish to give him another in company, Tell him that I love him and I wait here for him. |
| La serenata Poem by Giovanni Alfredo Cesareo | The serenade Translation by Laura Prichard |
| Vola, o serenata: La mia diletta è sola, e, con la bella testa abbandonata, posa tra le lenzuola: O serenata, vola. O serenata, vola. Splende Pura la luna, l'ale il silenzio stende, e dietro i veni dell'alcova bruna la lampada s'accende. Pure la luna splende. Pure la luna splende. Vola, o serenata, Vola, o serenata, vola. Ah! là. Ah! là. Vola, o serenata: La mia diletta è sola, ma sorridendo ancor mezzo assonnata, torna fra le lenzuola: O serenata, vola. O serenata, vola. L'onda sogna su 'l lido, e 'l vento su la fronda; e a' baci miei ricusa ancore un nido la mia signora bionda. Sogna su 'l lido l'onda. Sogna su 'l lido l'onda. Vola, o serenata, Vola, o serenata, vola. Ah! là. Ah! là. | Fly, o serenade: My beloved is alone, with her beautiful head hidden under the sheets: O serenade, fly. O serenade, fly. The moonlight is pure, wings of silence stretch out, and behind the veils of the dark alcove the lamp burns. The pure moonbeams shine. The pure moonbeams shine. Fly, o serenade, Fly, o serenade, fly. Ah! là. Ah! là. Fly, o serenade: My beloved is alone, but still smiling [while] half asleep, she has returned beneath the sheets: O serenade, fly. O serenade, fly. The waves dream on the shore, and the wind [blows] through the branches; and my kisses don’t result in a nest [being offered], by my blonde lady. Dreaming on the shore, [are] the waves. Dreaming on the shore, [are] the waves. Fly, o serenade. Fly, o serenade, fly. Ah! là. Ah! Là. |
| Will there really be a morning? Poem by Emily Dickinson | |
| Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like Water lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Does it come from famous places of which I have never heard? Oh some scholar! Oh some sailor! Oh some wise man from the skies! Please to tell this little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies! |
| Joy Poem by Langston Hughes | |
| I went to look for joy, Slim, dancing joy, Gay, laughing joy, Bright-eyed joy-- And I found her Driving the butcher's cart In the arms of the butcher boy! Such company, such company, As keeps this young nymph, joy! |
| Let beauty awake Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson | |
Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams, Beauty awake from rest! Let Beauty awake For Beauty’s sake In the hour when the birds awake in the brake And the stars are bright in the west!
Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day, Awake in the crimson eve! In the day’s dusk end When the shades ascend, Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend, To render again and receive! |
| The roadside fire Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson | |
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night, I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom; And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. |
| Youth and love Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson | |
To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside. Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand, Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.
Thick as stars at night when the moon is down, Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on, Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone. |
| Ständchen, Op. 17, No. 2 Poem by Adolf Friedrich von Schack | Serenade Translation by Richard Stokes |
| Mach auf, mach auf! doch leise, mein Kind, Um Keinen vom Schlummer zu wecken! Kaum murmelt der Bach, kaum zittert im Wind Ein Blatt an den Büschen und Hecken; Drum leise, mein Mädchen, daß nichts sich regt, Nur leise die Hand auf die Klinke gelegt! Mit Tritten, wie Tritte der Elfen so sacht, Um über die Blumen zu hüpfen, Flieg leicht hinaus in die Mondscheinnacht, Zu mir in den Garten zu schlüpfen! Rings schlummern die Blüten am rieselnden Bach Und duften im Schlaf, nur die Liebe ist wach. Sitz nieder! Hier dämmert's geheimnisvoll Unter den Lindenbäumen. Die Nachtigall uns zu Häupten soll Von unseren Küssen träumen Und die Rose, wenn sie am Morgen erwacht, Hoch glühn von den Wonneschauern der Nacht. | Open up, open up! but softly, my child, So that no one’s roused from slumber! The brook hardly murmurs, the breeze hardly moves A leaf on the bushes and hedges; Gently, my love, so nothing shall stir, Gently with your hand as you lift the latch! With steps as light as the steps of elves, As they hop their way over flowers, Flit out into the moonlit night, Slip out to me in the garden! The flowers are fragrant in sleep By the rippling brook, only love is awake. Sit down! Dusk falls mysteriously here Beneath the linden trees. The nightingale above us Shall dream of our kisses And the rose, when it wakes at dawn, Shall glow from our night’s rapture. |
| Allerseelen, Op. 10, No. 8 Poem by Hermann von Gilm | All Souls' Day Translation by Richard Stokes |
| Stell auf den Tisch die duftenden Reseden, Die letzten roten Astern trag herbei, Und laß uns wieder von der Liebe reden, Wie einst im Mai. Gib mir die Hand, daß ich sie heimlich drücke, Und wenn man’s sieht, mir ist es einerlei, Gib mir nur einen deiner süßen Blicke, Wie einst im Mai. Es blüht und duftet heut auf jedem Grabe, Ein Tag im Jahr ist ja den Toten frei, Komm am mein Herz, daß ich dich wieder habe, Wie einst im Mai. | Set on the table the fragrant mignonettes, Bring in the last red asters, And let us talk of love again As once in May. Give me your hand to press in secret, And if people see, I do not care, Give me but one of your sweet glances As once in May. Each grave today has flowers and is fragrant, One day each year is devoted to the dead; Come to my heart and so be mine again, As once in May. |
| from Winterreise, D. 911 Auf dem Flusse Poem by Wilhelm Müller | On the River Translation by Richard Wigmore |
| Der du so lustig rauschtest, Du heller, wilder Fluss, Wie still bist du geworden, Gibst keinen Scheidegruss. Mit harter, starrer Rinde Hast du dich überdeckt, Liegst kalt und unbeweglich Im Sande ausgestreckt. In deine Decke grab’ ich Mit einem spitzen Stein Den Namen meiner Liebsten Und Stund’ und Tag hinein: Den Tag des ersten Grusses, Den Tag, an dem ich ging, Um Nam’ und Zahlen windet Sich ein zerbrochner Ring. Mein Herz, in diesem Bache Erkennst du nun dein Bild? Ob’s unter seiner Rinde Wohl auch so reissend schwillt? | You who rippled so merrily, clear, boisterous river, how still you have become; you give no parting greeting. With a hard, rigid crust you have covered yourself; you lie cold and motionless, stretched out in the sand. On your surface I carve with a sharp stone the name of my beloved, the hour and the day. The day of our first greeting, the date I departed. Around name and figures a broken ring is entwined. My heart, do you now recognise your image in this brook? Is there not beneath its crust likewise a seething torrent? |
| from Winterreise, D. 911 Der Lindenbaum Poem by Wilhelm Müller | The Linden Tree Translation by Richard Wigmore |
| Am Brunnen vor dem Tore, Da steht ein Lindenbaum; Ich träumt’ in seinem Schatten So manchen süssen Traum. Ich schnitt in seine Rinde So manches liebe Wort; Es zog in Freud’ und Leide Zu ihm mich immer fort. Ich musst’ auch heute wandern Vorbei in tiefer Nacht, Da hab’ ich noch im Dunkel Die Augen zugemacht. Und seine Zweige rauschten, Als riefen sie mir zu: Komm her zu mir, Geselle, Hier findst du deine Ruh’! Die kalten Winde bliesen Mir grad’ in’s Angesicht, Der Hut flog mir vom Kopfe, Ich wendete mich nicht. Nun bin ich manche Stunde Entfernt von jenem Ort, Und immer hör’ ich’s rauschen: Du fändest Ruhe dort! | By the well, before the gate, stands a linden tree; in its shade I dreamt many a sweet dream. In its bark I carved many a word of love; in joy and sorrow I was ever drawn to it. Today, too, I had to walk past it at dead of night; even in the darkness I closed my eyes. And its branches rustled as if they were calling to me: ‘Come to me, friend, here you will find rest.’ The cold wind blew straight into my face, my hat flew from my head; I did not turn back. Now I am many hours’ journey from that place; yet I still hear the rustling: ‘There you would find rest.’ |
| from Winterreise, D. 911 Erstarrung Poem by Wilhelm Müller | Numbness Translation by Richard Wigmore |
| Ich such’ im Schnee vergebens Nach ihrer Tritte Spur, Wo sie an meinem Arme Durchstrich die grüne Flur. Ich will den Boden küssen, Durchdringen Eis und Schnee Mit meinen heissen Tränen, Bis ich die Erde seh’. Wo find’ ich eine Blüte, Wo find’ ich grünes Gras? Die Blumen sind erstorben, Der Rasen sieht so blass. Soll denn kein Angedenken Ich nehmen mit von hier? Wenn meine Schmerzen schweigen, Wer sagt mir dann von ihr? Mein Herz ist wie erstorben, Kalt starrt ihr Bild darin: Schmilzt je das Herz mir wieder, Fliesst auch ihr Bild dahin. | In vain I seek her footprints in the snow, where she walked on my arm through the green meadows. I will kiss the ground and pierce ice and snow with my burning tears, until I see the earth. Where shall I find a flower? Where shall I find green grass? The flowers have died, the grass looks so pale. Shall I, then, take no memento from here? When my sorrows are stilled who will speak to me of her? My heart is as dead, her image coldly rigid within it; if my heart ever melts again her image, too, will flow away. |
| Duet, "Lippen schweigen," from Die lustige Witwe Poem by Viktor Léon and Leo Stein | |
| Lippen schweigen, ‘s flüstern Geigen: Hab’ mich lieb! All’ die Schritte sagen bitte, hab’ mich lieb! Jeder Druck der Hände deutlich mir’s beschrieb, er sagt klar: ’s ist wahr, ’s is wahr, du hast mich lieb! Bei jedem Walzerschritt Tanzt auch die Seel emit, Da hüpft das Herzchen klein, Es klopft und pocht: Sei mein! Sei mein! Under der Mund er spricht kein Wort, Doch tönt es fort und immerfort: Ich hab’ dich ja so lieb, Ich hab’ dich lieb! Jeder Druck der Hände deutlich mir’s beschrieb er sagt klar: ’s is wahr, ’s ist wahr, du hast mich lieb! | While our lips are still denying Words of love! Pleading strings are softly sighing, be my love! Haunting sounds of music echo from above they reply it's true, it's true you are my love! And to the music's charms You held me in your arms, It seems like yesterday you used to say: Be mine! Be mine! Though my lips said not a word, yet in my heart a voice is heard: It tells me we're in love, We're so in love! Haunting sounds of music echo from above they reply, it's true, it's true you are my love! |