The most wonderful thing about music is that one can say everything in it, so that he who knows understands everything; and yet one hasn’t given away one’s secrets — the things one doesn’t admit even to oneself.
“Bring me my rose-buds, drawer, come; So while I thus sit crown’d, I’ll drink the aged Cecubum, Until the roof turn round.”
Robert Herrick | “A Frolic”
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