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