On barren days,
At hours when I, apart, have
Bent low in thought of the great charm thou hast,
Behold with music’s many-stringed charms
The silence groweth thou. O rare delight!
The melody upon clear strings inflected
Were dull when o’er taut sense thy presence floweth,
With quivering notes’ accord that never palleth.
“Approaching may be our most profound vocation. Perhaps we do nothing else in our lifetimes but hedge round, surround things and people with greater or lesser precision, more or less conscientiously, swerving or brushing past them, at most grasping them for a moment, never arriving anywhere for good, except, at the very last, in the earth.“
Daniël Robberechts | Arriving in Avignon