HER LAST LONDON CONCERT REVISITED

HER LAST LONDON CONCERT REVISITED

The voice, vibrato, rose and fell, Wobbled around the crowded hall, Sounding for us the diva’s knell. Callas was fifty, here, today! The Suicidio held sway, But we felt only cold dismay: La Gioconda's monotone Had penetrated to the bone, Turning our gorgon hearts to stone. Nothing was left. We might as well Escape ourselves at interval, Rather than on destruction dwell.

Then the duet from Carmen came; Di Stefano was much the same; All that remained of her the name:

Until, although long custom had Made it staple opera food, Laissez-moi passer! chilled our blood. And so we stayed. The magic grew. We heard the tones that once we knew; Only the beautiful and true; Santuzza’s anger and her pride Were there, although the voice had died, In gesture not to be denied; She was that peasant girl betrayed, Callas, in scarlet gown arrayed, A simple, broken-hearted maid!

And so we clapped for something more, We clapped until our hands were sore, But we were granted no encore; For Callas had set sail to be A part of that great mystery Her art permitted us to see; Callas had passed into the night Which she had sought, as was her right, Leaving us an abode of light.