Happy in the morning I open my cottage door; A clear breeze blowing Comes straight in. The first sun Lights the leafy trees; The shadows it casts Are crystal clear. Serene, In accord with my heart, Everything merges In one harmony . . .
Pavarotti retains a kind of religious, mystical, commitment to his "work.” And he insists on referring to it as "work,” claiming: "You can always love your work; your profession, at best, you can exercise.” Few people realize that the joyful tenor, the man who is always smiling, is almost a cloistered monk . . .
