Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.
It is with literature as with law or empire — an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession.
From childhood’s hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness, imperfection, and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.