Note 68 — Chapter X
Aylmer Maude translation
Music, music before all things
The eccentric still prefer,
Vague in air, and nothing weighty,
Soluble. Yet do not err,
Choosing words; still do it lightly,
Do it too with some contempt;
Dearest is the song that’s tipsy,
Clearness, dimness not exempt.
Music always, now and ever
Be thy verse the thing that flies
From a soul that’s gone, escaping,
Gone to other loves and skies.
Gone to other loves and regions,
Following fortunes that allure,
Mint and thyme and morning crispness ...
All the rest’s mere literature.