It is too late at night to write poems about every song. Let this, then, be the last, or rather the promise of other days to come. We find in life so many things, so many songs, that for a time they must suffice as poems for themselves. I am content with this; so long as the heart be open, and the mind, willing, to grasp the unending nature of beauty. For it is in the "finality" of human thought that all terrible things begin.