Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.
Redeem the time. Redeem the unread vision of a higher dream.
I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
Past art is subject to change.
The darkness declares the glory of light.