The Dead Tenor

As down the stage again, With Spanish hat and plumes, and gait inimitable, Back from the fading lessons of the past, I’d call, I’d tell and own, How much from thee! the revelation of the singing voice from thee! (So firm⁠—so liquid-soft⁠—again that tremulous, manly timbre! The perfect singing voice⁠—deepest of all to me the lesson⁠—trial and test of all:) How through those strains distill’d⁠—how the rapt ears, the soul of me, absorbing Fernando’s heart, Manrico’s passionate call, Ernani’s , sweet Gennaro’s , I fold thenceforth, or seek to fold, within my chants transmuting, Freedom’s and Love’s and Faith’s unloos’d cantabile, (As perfume’s, color’s, sunlight’s correlation:)