You won’t get a wild, heroic ride to heaven on pretty little sounds.
“The light became her grace and dwelt among
Blind eyes and shadows that are formed as men
Lo, how the light doth melt us into song:
The broken sunlight for a healm she beareth
Who hath my heart in jurisdiction.
In wild-wood never fawn nor fallow fareth
So silent light; no gossamer is spun
So delicate as she is, when the sun
Drives the clear emeralds from the bended grasses
Lest they should parch too swiftly, where she passes.”
Ezra Pound | “Ballatetta”