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
Color becomes pallor
Man becomes carcass
Home becomes catacomb
And the dead
Are but for a moment
Motionless