Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form.
E. M. ForsterHe stretched out his hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sadโฆThe poem had done no โgoodโ to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved.
E. M. Forster