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The most renowned poems would be ashes, orations
and plays would be vacuums.

26. All architecture is what you do to it when you look
upon it,
Did you think it was in the white or gray stone?
or the lines of the arches and cornices?

27. All music is what awakes from you, when you are
reminded by the instruments,
It is not the violins and the cornets—it is not the
oboe nor the beating drums, nor the score of the
baritone singer singing his sweet romanza—nor
that of the men's chorus, nor that of the women's
chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.

28. Will the whole come back then?
Can each see signs of the best by a look in the
looking-glass? is there nothing greater or more?
Does all sit there with you, and here with me?

29. The old, forever-new things—you foolish child! the
closest, simplest things, this moment with you,
Your person, and every particle that relates to your
person,
The pulses of your brain, waiting their chance and
encouragement at every deed or sight,
Anything you do in public by day, and anything
you do in secret between-days,
What is called right and what is called wrong—
what you behold or touch, or what causes your
anger or wonder,