You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!) To find a friend...
music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.
Honest criticism and sensible appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.
