Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.

Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

That which is creative must create itself.