The morning I speak of they were singing some fugued composition by I
know not whom. How well that music suited St. Mark's! The constant
interchange of vault and vault, cupola and cupola, column and column,
handing on their energies to one another; the springing up of new
details gathered at once into the great general balance of lines and
forces; all this seemed to find its natural voice in that fugue, to
express, in that continuous revolution of theme chasing, enveloping
theme, its own grave emotion of life everlasting: Being, becoming;
becoming, being.