Come
away, come away, death,
And
in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly
away, fly away, breath;
I
am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My
shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O,
prepare it!
My
part of death, no one so true
Did
share it.
Not
a flower, not a flower sweet,
On
my black coffin let there be strown.
Not
a friend, not a friend greet
My
poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A
thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay
me, O, where
Sad
true lover never find my grave,
To
weep there!
—
William Shakespeare, from Twelfth Night, II:4
I have long felt a connection with this text, and it moves me so much that I try to keep it shut away. (Like this one.) But a few days ago, in a Shakespeare-themed choral concert, I performed in a most poignant setting by Erik Nielsen, and it still haunts me, words and music. I wish I could forget it.