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Suddenly and unexpectedly, there entered a light yet mournful phrase in F major, which was almost a dance-rhythm, and seemed to be a small, frail pleading for something not rightly understood. Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit, Will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit. The innocent little theme passed away, and the words were sung again to a stern and fateful close in D flat major.
There was another such day in English literature when the slow-measure of Pope's common time gave place to the dance-rhythm of the French revolution. This had Byron for its poet. And the impetuosity of his passion also moved our veiled heart-bride in the seclusion of her corner.
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