Marginal note: in a slim book

Song is such that only by its own laws comes to pass. Who seeks to contrive the pulsing thing strictly by skills ends (he will find) with yokeless shells; with flowers, scentless of wax, of silk

or - stillborn as scored - with notes powerless to induce a single heart (O one lone heart sunk in despair) itself again like a thrush to sing! And, like a lark to soar.