Never weather-beaten sail.

Neuer weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore,
Neuer tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more
Than my wearied spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest :
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest.

First half of a poem by Thomas Campion, to which C.H.Parry set to a motet which we sang in Cologne; No recording on Youtube, sadly.
A hommage here to my homecoming next week and the limenal period which is now...

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Our concert yesterday in Koblenz shed a few tears in the audience... here's one of the pieces that did this, by Orlando Gibbons 1583-1625 (and a puzzling background image on Youtube to go with it):

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell, all joys;
O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live,
more fools than wise.