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Poem	There in the fringe of trees between the upper field and the edge of the one below it that runs above the valley one time I heard in the early days of summer the clear ringing six notes that I knew were the opening of the Fingal's Cave Overture I heard them again and again that year and the next summer and the year afterward those six descending notes the same for all the changing in my own life since the last time I had heard them fall past me from the bright air in the morning of a bird and I believed that what I had heard would always be there if I came again to be overtaken by that season in that place after the winter and I would wonder again whether Mendelssohn really had heard them somewhere far to the north that many years ago looking up from his youth to listen to those six notes of an ancestor spilling over from a presence neither water nor human that led to the cave in his mind the fluted cliffs and the wave going out and the falling water he thought those notes could be the music for Mendelssohn is gone and Fingal is gone all but his name for a cave and for one piece of music and the black-capped warbler as we called that bird that I remember singing there those notes descending from the age of the ice dripping I have not heard again this year can it be gone then will I not hear it from now on will the overture begin for a time and all those who listen feel that falling in them but as always without knowing what they recognize
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