Ms. Dickinson wrote of a winter-e'en light-slant and the lingering echoes of dirge in lightless cathedral deeps. Perhaps it was so in Amherst, but as the sun drags its last claws deep across Oxford (it is May, but May comes too early here), that slant evokes not oppression but the enharmonic majesty of a Tallis motet, and as the golden weight rolls off the bronze and stone and glass of the city's glittering spires I resonate in the acoustic perfection of a High Gothic meadow.
19 May 2007
(edit: 28 May 2007)
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1 comment:
I hope you're taking pictures of all this.
Loveyou.
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