Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.
“Those who paint a landscape for the sake of painting a landscape, those who write a symphony just for the sake of writing a symphony are in the best of cases good craftsmen. I cannot conceive of works of art other than as manifestations of their makers’ limitless enthusiasm, despair, sorrow, anger, revenge, scorn, and sarcasm.”
Béla Bartók