Some quick music is inexpressibly mournful. It seems just like one's own feelings -- exultation and action, with the remembrance of past sorrow wailing up, yet without bitterness, tender in its shrillness, through the mingled tide of present joy; and the notes seem thoughts -- thoughts pure of words; and a spirit seems to call to me in them and cry, "Hast thou not felt all this?" And I start when I find myself answering unconsciously, "Yes, yes, I know it all! Surely we are a part of all we see and hear!" And then, the harmony thickens, and all distinct sound is pressed together and absorbed in a confused paroxysm of delight, where still the female treble and the male bass are distinct for a moment, and then one again -- absorbed into each other's being -- sweetened and strengthened by each other's melody. . . .

Letters and Memories. 1842.