Arranged in parts we stand upon the stairs,
Whose stones and tiles bounce back each singing voice,
So madrigals resound and all the cares
Of those who hear us disappear. The choice
Of music, which befits this April day,
(Four hundred years and then five decades more
Since Shakespeare's birth) not taken from a play,
Nor yet a setting of his verse, will cure
The listener and the singer both with ease
Of any miserable mood. Excess
Of music - there is no such thing, to please
Is music's purpose; we succeed no less
In this respect because the songs we sing
Are madrigals on love, and death and spring.
Whose stones and tiles bounce back each singing voice,
So madrigals resound and all the cares
Of those who hear us disappear. The choice
Of music, which befits this April day,
(Four hundred years and then five decades more
Since Shakespeare's birth) not taken from a play,
Nor yet a setting of his verse, will cure
The listener and the singer both with ease
Of any miserable mood. Excess
Of music - there is no such thing, to please
Is music's purpose; we succeed no less
In this respect because the songs we sing
Are madrigals on love, and death and spring.
A Shakespearean sonnet about Shakespeare!
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