What passion cannot music raise and quell!

He has not learned the first lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear.

Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since by being dead.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

Griefs assured are felt before they come.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

Swift was the race, but short the time to run.