Thought Is Invisible Nature.

And Over The Pond Are Sailing Two Swans All White As Snow; Sweet Voices Mysteriously Wailing Pierce Through Me As Onward They Go. They Sail Along, And A Ringing Sweet Melody Rises On High; And When The Swans Begin Singing, They Presently Must Die.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

I Am No Longer A Divine Biped. I Am No Longer The Freest German After Goethe, As Ruge Named Me In Healthier Days. I Am No Longer The Great Hero No. 2, Who Was Compared With The Grape-crowned Dionysius, Whilst My Colleague No. 1 Enjoyed The Title Of A Grand Ducal Weimarian Jupiter. I Am No Longer A Joyous, Somewhat Corpulent Hellenist, Laughing Cheerfully Down Upon The Melancholy Nazarenes. I Am Now A Poor Fatally-ill Jew, An Emaciated Picture Of Woe, An Unhappy Man.

Nothing Is More Futile Than Theorizing About Music. No Doubt There Are Laws, Mathematically Strict Laws, But These Laws Are Not Music; They Are Only Its Conditions? The Essence Of Music Is Revelation.

Experience Is A Good School. But The Fees Are High.