In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.

Music falls on the silence like a sense, A passion that we feel, not understand.

The partaker partakes of that which changes him. The child that touches takes character from the thing, The body, it touches. The captain and his men Are one a…

Two things of opposite natures seem to depend On one another, as a man depends On a woman, day on night, the imagined On the real. This is the origin of change…

And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

It's definitely a different world. Smoking is bad for your voice, for sure, but you learn to function in that world of bad. Now I'm in better shape, and I'm mu…

She was a soprano of the kind often used for augmenting grief at a funeral.