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