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 an essential.
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 become pallor, man becomes carcass, home becomes catacomb,
and the dead are but for a moment motionless.

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