This Is Not A Brook

I Change Many Things, Discard Others, And Try Again And Again Until I Am Satisfied; Then, In My Head, I Being To Elaborate The Work In Its Breadth, Its Narrowness, Its Height, Its Depth...i Hear And See The Image In Front Of Me From Every Angle As If It Had Been Cast And Only The Labour Of Writing It Down Remains.

Tones Sound, And Roar And Storm About Me Until I Have Set Them Down In Notes.

Do You Think I Give A Damn About Your And Your Pathetic Violin?

Men Are Not Only Together When They Are With Each Other; Even The Distant And The Dead Live With Us.

If I Contemplate Myself As Part Of The Universe: What Am I?