No greater contrast could there have really been
Between the golden light on golden stone,
Which through the window poured upon the scene
In balmy air and ancient stillness, known
Nine centuries to heal, where we had met to sing
A requiem, just for the sake of song;
And that dead day of frozen fog, when spring
Seemed at its furthest distance, and the long
Descent into despair was matched by grey,
And breath made steam upon the icy air.
No greater contrast with that dreadful day
Could there have ever been, and yet we two,
Transported via 'In Paradisum' were with you;
As there beneath pale hyacinths you lay,
And listened, so we hoped, to Fauré then,
Believing it could permeate the cold
And penetrate to some part of the mind,
Where death had not yet, really, taken hold.
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