I don’t get nostalgic. I’m not a proud mountaineer. I don’t wear the gold and the blue. I don’t sing “Coal Miner’s Daughter” like I used to. “Oh I’m proud to be a coal miner’s daughter. I remember well, the well where I drew water. Nothing’s left, but the floors, Nothing lives here, anymore. ‘Cept
And yet, as always, the springtime sun brings forth new life, and we may rejoice because of this new life and contribute to its unfolding; and Mozart remains as beautiful and tender as he always was and always will be. There is, after all, something eternal that lies beyond reach of the hand of fate
