Were it permissible to make pure musical sounds in poetry, I would. A prelude of notes would greet the reader; I think this would be good. How could I pull it off? The sounds of speech resemble in terms of mere sound, a cough. Words by themselves signify only; their sounds do not make a speech profound; Hamlet is not a piece for violin; Sound alone never slips the meaning in or signifies events and descriptions for the eye; Beethoven created a summer storm, true, but that was nature being loud and soft, the creature buried, the cloud aloft; music does what poetry can never do; poetry is a silent forest of words sans night, sans forest, sans birds. Words have sounds, but random ones, and those sounds do not possess harmony, much less melody; the harmonizing sounds of music will always surpass the faint note of me; I cannot complain in verse the way Debussy makes it rain; the pure sorrow of Mozart’s Requiem will not be found in my poetry tomorrow. Sure, I may shake with sorrow---see a dark and weeping hell where ghosts, glimpsed, mistaken for you, sigh; but they will elude me, music will elude me. Oh, well.