“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 in 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.
Without music, or an intriguing idea, color becomes pallor;
Man becomes carcass;
Home becomes catacomb;
The dead, are but for a moment, motionless.”