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Perfect is not perfect. The intimate nature
Let me not to the muck of physical mine.
The last whit of love strives to thy soul
So thine eyes are open, to the world of ideal:
Ho,ho,ho! Shall I borrow the Plato's mind?
Oh yes! Let me to the marriage of Orpheus's soul!
To immortality where mortality not yet met;
The place of music was drawn off by Chopin
Which capricious alters caprice on the Capri,
Or the stray which strayed with the arbitrary.
It is the love to the hell and return to earth,
Charm the beasts and coax the oaks into dance.
Either this law is fault or no sense of form,
I never composed. Nor Beethoven ever born.
图片发自简书App
图片发自简书App
