Saturday, April 19, 2003

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to Poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

I have no heart for anything today but Keats, & the splendid mysteries of Beethoven's late quartets, the op. 132 & the op. 135 in particular. Muss es sein? And the reply comes not as an imprecation, not as a threat, not as a lamentation, but as a benediction: Es muss sein!

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