Orpheus In The Daylight

(A Friend's Remembrance) After his wife's death Orpheus spoke little. He still sang his songs, and those of us who loved him, both his friends and fellow artists, both the relatives and servants who lived on his estate, all of us were daily regaled with the double beauty of his art and his presence. The gap between writing and composing and then performing had narrowed dramatically. He wrote words on paper in the silence of early morning, and we kept our distance, pursued our own arts or household duties, until he stirred, left behind the solitude of poetry, and joined the rest of us. He was very sociable, talked impartially about serious or trivial topics, even teased the servants out of their labor and pulled them into frivolity. What this generosity of spirit cost him was rarely evident, but at times we could see waves of grief surface and darken his features. Then he withdrew into Eurydice's garden, with only his dearest companions, among whom I was blessed. There, leaning against a cypress sapling, rested his lyre. And for hours he played just the absolute music of strings, sometimes so softly we had to squeeze our hearing for the sounds to enter our rapt souls. Fragrances of dozens of flowers that Eurydice had planted and nurtured rose into the afternoon heat and mingled with the mellow lyre sound, and aromas and tones became one sensation. And the sun, in its apogee of glory, sent shafts of hard light over us. Orpheus led us in prayer to Helios Sun-God, but within our hearts worship unfolded for the primal god of Light, shining Apollo, the Master Singer, the Father of Orpheus.