There’s a fine line between passion and compulsion. German composer Robert Schumann walked it. He wrote to his wife Clara, "I cannot help it, and should like to sing myself to death, like a nightingale." In some respects his biography reads like a self-fulfilling prophecy. When he died at the age of 46, he’d produced a body of lyrical, Romantic music dazzling in its craftsmanship and deceptive simplicity. June 8th is Schumann’s birth anniversary. Like a luna moth, he appeared for a little time, then vanished.