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 [bad word] of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception, music [bad word] with a pleasurable idea is poetry.
Music without the idea is simply music. Without music or an intriguing idea, colour [bad word] pallor, man [bad word] carcass, home [bad word] catacomb,
and the dead are but for a moment motionless.