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.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As if some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--Only this and nothing more.

We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.

No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path.