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
Without music or an intriguing idea, colour becomes pallor, man becomes
carcase
Home becomes catacomb, and the dead are but for a moment
motionless