When The Daylight Dies Poem by gershon hepner

Don’t fear the hour when the daylight dies,
melting silent dreams within the sea,
believing hopefully that we’ll arise,
to be what we had always aimed to be.

Once we leave the isle in which we rest
for fourscore years, perhaps, or even more,
we will not come back from the waning west
to shine again upon an eastern shore.

So let us tread the golden path of rays
while daylight still remains, and glory in
the sunset colors at which we may gaze,
not skeletons so long as we have skin.

Inspired by a description of Berlioz’s second visit to Nice, which took place in 1868. In his first visit to Nice he learned that his fiancée, Camille Moke, had broken off the engagement and married Camille Pleyel, a rich piano manufacturer. Their marriage broke down after a few years because of her 'disorderly behaviour and persistent infidelity', according to her husband. Berlioz suffered a stroke during his second visit to Nice and never fully recovered. In a letter to a friend he described his visit, citing a poem by the Irish poet Thomas Moore:
Berlioz’s second and final return visit to Nice, almost exactly a year after the letter to his uncle, was less happy – on coming back to Paris from his last trip to Russia in February 1868 he insisted on going once again to Nice, but soon after his arrival there at the beginning of March he suffered a fall, followed by a stroke, and had to return to Paris. He never recovered fully. Berlioz admired the scenery in this sea-port, which at the time of his first visit in 1831 was part of Italy. In a letter to his friends in Paris early in May (Correspondance générale no.223) , he writes:
[…] I have a delightful room with windows overlooking the sea. I have got used to the continuous moan of the waves. When I open my window in the morning, it is wonderful to watch the crests approaching like the undulating mane of a squadron of white horses. I go to sleep to the sound of the breaking waves which crash against the rock on which my house is built.
The location of Nice makes it a really delightful little town; the sea and mountains are fresh and pink-coloured. Occasionally, and at the risk of breaking my limbs, I go for excursions among the rocks. The other day I discovered the ruins of a tower built on the edge of the precipice; there is a small open space in front of it, where I lie down in the sun and look out at sea watching ships arriving from afar, I count the fishermen’s boats and marvel at that golden path of rays which, according to Thomas Moore, must lead to some bright isle of rest! * Actually it is in real life the subject of the lithograph of our melodies; yes, Gounet, it is exactly that. […]
* Note: this is a quotation from Thomas Moore’s Irish Melodies, from the poem entitled How dear to me the hour (London,2nd ed.1822, p.27) . The full poem reads:
How dear to me the hour when day-light dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave tow’rd the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think ’twould lead to some bright isle of rest!

6/24/09