It is proportion that beautifies everything, the whole universe consists of it, and music is measured by it.
The silver Swan, who, living, had no Note, when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat. Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more: 'Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes! More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.'
The silver swan, who, living had no note, When death approached unlocked her silent throat.
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