(Note: These spoken words appear only
On the remastered 1987 Version
Narrated by Orson Welles)

Shadows of shadows passing
It is now 1831, and as always, I am absorbed with a delicate thought
It is how poetry has indefinite sensations, to which end music in inessential
Since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception
Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry
Music, without the idea, is simply music
Without music, or an intriguing idea, color becomes pallor;
Man becomes carcass;
Home becomes catacomb;
The dead, are but for a moment, motionless

Instrumental