And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink.

Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!

I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.

Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.

I find that I never lose Bach. I don't know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.