by Matthew Ciesla ’24
At times, progressing as if by force,
No enjoyment found therein,
And then as if a steady course
Pushes one to further strive.
So monotonous these tones seem,
Repeated once and then once more,
Yet those well versed continually deem
Their value beyond measure.
O may you, repetition’s dearest friend,
Grant this undertaking some ease.
And allow that these here harmonies blend
Seamlessly as if by chance.
To mastery lead me thus
For crowds and praise unmet, unseen
So that meeting me they see us
And envy deeply our bond.
Of such greatness one can dream,
With such persistence few can clash.
Yet with you it all may seem
Obtainable with passing time.
But such thoughts are only thoughts,
Meaningless on my seat here.
Meaningless to these damn dots
My stare returning fiercely.
So to reality must I return
And leave behind the grandeur thence
And with each bar so deeply yearn
For thy gifts to be bestowed.