I. Allegro ma non troppo, or “an awakening of happy feelings on arriving in the country”

 

What, of windy sorts of claims

may love so make untame?

None like the gusts on panes

in a country cottage, the same,

 

as wrapping into, and fleeting fro,

Nature comes forth, and calls the man,

to fly from home, and call to Green: “Lo!

I come, to defy the day’s command!”

 

Bright blue is the hour, and forgiving, the sky,

and notes on a staff are the avian flights,

and rushing are the brooks in distance, far,

that delighted, he seeks, for a strolling part

 

in epics, unnamed, and heroes, untold

who, delighting in leaves, and birds, and calves

eschew all within civilization’s fold,

while parting all sorrows into quarters, and halves

 

Ragged, the man, there walks and sings,

quiet, in the head, what outside rings

Alone amongst men, but to beasts, a friend,

as always it goes, when great minds mend

 

the void, as stays, between Nature and Man,

not true, but ensued, in a blind man’s land,

but these tense eyes, see only the best

in all that the rest forsake, that lest

 

all men’s very hearts turn bright and soft,

enough for the tune of majestic, aloft

these warblers, and wrens, who cheerful, upend

the vices of man, to rancor suspend

 

the scaling sight that shields a heart’s eyes

from explosions in Green, in which confides

the walker, the knight, of musical prose

who, far from all men, does ever compose

 

what steps he walks near foliage, and stream,

and winds that stalk his loves and dreams:

these are the sheep whose faces kiss

his heart, and his mind, where nothing amiss

 

even tries, inside, to barge and storm,

since purity, alone, resides in form

when a soul forgets what pains in Town

trouble the men who won’t walk, and thus frown

 

Alas! There’s the Brook,

and now’s the moment

 

the Journeyman rests,

yet to more notes foment!

 

II. Andante molto moto, or “scene by the Brook”

 

Teams in three, as the steps, cease near the banks

of squirrels, and pheasants, and searing such minds:

the same who, when waking, befuddle the ranks

of badges, and trophies, and liars in kinds!

 

See,

 

All of Man, that seems bright, breeds far from the Brook,

 

and,

 

though it seems, rooted trees, and silent dead rocks

are stagnant, and burdened, like fishes in hooks,

yet here they, paint the Score, and sail from the docks!

 

Beethoven, sees what men, devour as blind

as killers, and sinners, for Nature’s demise,

and takes it, and dresses, what men mock in mind,

in colors, and metres, without compromise!

 

These such lives, in the skies, or lush fertile ground

are for him, the answers, to every man’s frown

But to love, as he did, requires that found,

are those sighs, of sad hearts, in artists’ renown

 

Our

 

Journeyman, near this Brook, retraces the steps

that master, of music, once took to spurn death,

and also, like his heart, feels painful in heft

what stingings, and tremors, all deep men collect,

 

But,

 

Walking here, looking there, foliage caresses,

Waters kiss, Winds embrace, Creatures in masses

Give what Towns, only take, where man compresses

all dear things, every joy, in Sin’s molasses!

 

Man,

 

though he may, when he wants, kill each such bright dream,

they don’t all, see this way, but many come clean;

where arrive, Journeymen, aside from the Brook,

Peasants wave, children run, and faith restored gleams!

 

III. Allegro, or “Peasant’s merrymaking”

 

“Stranger, hail, your troubles bygone

comprise my trade, my health, my mirth!

Merry I make, when townsfolk, wise,

journey so far, with courage in girth!

 

For a time, my cabin, and hearth,

are yours for warmth, and drink, and talk,

for never do we, in the country, apart,

forget God’s Image in brothers who balk

 

before all that’s nasty, polluted, and wrong

that men choose freely, deathly, and merely,

but some understand, like you and your Song,

and souls know souls, porous and fully!

 

Know this, then too, my Vagabond, weary,

 

that though

 

I lodge, I sing, and warmth impart,

the Storm, I cannot, convince so dearly,

Godspeed then, when, your boots depart!

​

Those of your spirit are sure to prevail,

for wet, or dry, or torn nearly apart,

hearts struggling, but pure, will never quite fail,

 

for even when maimed, or maybe even killed,

the Light from above will keep you dear!

Remember, that though the world’s cup be filled,

a man has only what the Spirit brings near!

 

So halts our time, and thanks be to God

that today, we met, and then took our own ways,

for now you know, I hope, through my Land,

that not so alone, are Heaven’s brothers, in frays!”

 

IV. Allegro, or “The storm”

 

See,

 

Even when Doves go seeking new skies,

Blue turns to Black, faster than can connive

those men who seek love in what Pastures may hide,

but alike, even far, regardless must strive

 

to brave such elements grant no man respect:

neither just, nor unjust, all debts they collect,

and even when it seems only peace shall protect,

in fact, very fast, Hell comes to erect

 

such statues, as dead, as a will without care

for whatever may come, even horribly unfair,

and such is this life: now one, then a pair

torn sudden, in two, then three, and a fourth snare!

 

See,

 

It never was the point, and it did little good

to traverse the country, so that he could

pretend that solace can last in this world,

but just as all seems so lost and unfurled,

 

Look! The Storm calms,

and now Shepherds’ staves, curled,

adorn the sweet plains, that weren’t here hurdled

 

by all that speaks death,

and occults Heaven’s Pearls!

 

V. Allegretto, or “Shepherd’s song. Joyous thanksgiving after the storm.”

 

“’Heigh, and ho’ these Journeymen go,

and all things they do, but sing!

Yet we, Shep-herds, though Storms do blow,

know cycles, always, shall swing!

 

Bright, and Dark: these are the lots

that men, under sin, do cast,

for ever they look, but never the blots

in their own souls, nor the masts

 

of Ships, within, but Waves, without,

they’d rather do blame and point,

until, the day, Storms ravage and pout,

and then, the soul anoints

 

a King, Prophet, to order the heart,

and gratitude, dear, bestow,

on those who’ll see beyond their part:

the greater whole come to know!

 

This, Shep-herds, learn willing or not,

for Seasons and Wolves stay near,

and often what sour, and seldom what ought

takes place, and humbles us clear!

 

Journeyman, come, and join the Feast,

for clouds, so dark, have died,

See, all you sought, all birds and beasts,

are here, outside and inside!

 

For here, there are no lines or rifts

between everything God’s, and Man’s,

but all collects, and together commits,

and abandoned are all our plans!

 

Come, see wings soar, while sheep implore,

their faces again displayed,

like those you saw, and first adored,

when the journey began, arrayed

 

in all you hoped, would steer the Boat,

and drive it so far from Man,

yet still you found, it’s only a Moat:

by circles, and circles, looms land!

 

When back ye in Town, as fate will draw,

remember all that we sang,

and even though Storms, shall dig their claws,

your journey, not vain, shall hang

 

these Truths, and Songs, high on such walls

as in your brave soul stand tall!

Remember the Plains, the Waters and all

that for their good cause you called

 

all Life to your side, and dead rocks alike,

until Hell itself: frightened, appalled,

shook until broken, since due to your hike,

the world is less dark, and hearts the less mauled!

 

Let us fare well, and now go 

 

Play

 

such notes, like great Beethoven,

 

would on walks, like yours, break open

 

and thunderous, 

passionate,

 

Lay.”

 

​

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Ode to the Pastoral Symphony of Ludwig van Beethoven”, 01-20-26

 

© 2026 by Ryan Vincent Smith