Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.

Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

The lazy leaden-stepping Hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

I sit down to the piano regularly at nine-o'clock in the morning and Mesdames les Muses have learned to be on time for that rendezvous.

Sounds and ideas are hanging in the air;I am devouring them and stuffing myself.A comment he wrote after viewing an exhibition of Viktor Hartmann's drawings an…