Dèr Mouw is always a slight misquoter: 'Anges purs! anges radieux! Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!'

it’s summer; Sunday morning. And a scene

from distant boyhood suddenly is there:

I lie in grass, rose petals everywhere

around me – yellow, pink and white in sheen;

my mother plays the piano, the last notes

of Gounod’s Faust. Its strings I sensed vibrating,

as if within me, then reverberating

all the way up my chest and to my throat.

At which I wept and wept, till mother came,

stroked and kissed me and took me in her arms,

and, happy, I gave her the fondest name. –

I see roses. I’m grey. The memory’s still

vibrating in my throat, as if I trill

the words: ‘Anges des cieux, portez mon âme’.