Shadows of shadows passing.
It is now 1831, and as always I am absorbed with a delicate thought.
It is how poetry has indefinite sensations, to which end music is inessential.
Since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception, music, when combined
with a pleasurable idea, is poetry.
Music without the idea is simply music.
carcase, home becomes catacomb, and the dead are but for a moment motionless.
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