There Is Delight In Singing, Though None

States, Like Men, Have Their Growth, Their Manhood, Their Decrepitude, Their Decay.

There Is A Desire Of Property In The Sanest And Best Men, Which Nature Seems To Have Implanted As Conservative Of Her Works, And Which Is Necessary To Encourage And Keep Alive The Arts.

Many Love Music But For Music's Sake, Many Because Her Touches Can Awake Thoughts That Repose Within The Breast Half-dead, And Rise To Follow Where She Loves To Lead. What Various Feelings Come From Days Gone By! What Tears From Far-off Sources Dim The Eye! Few, When Light Fingers With Sweet Voices Play, And Melodies Swell, Pause, And Melt Away, Mind How At Every Touch, At Every Tone, A Spark Of Life Hath Glistened And Hath Gone.

The Very Beautiful Rarely Love At All; Those Precious Images Are Placed Above The Reach Of The Passions: Time Alone Is Permitted To Efface Them.

Truth Sometimes Corner Unawares Upon Caution, And Sometimes Speaks In Public As Unconsciously As In A Dream.