Monday, October 8, 2007

Why this desire for one final theory one final god? why not chill out and enjoy the pied beauty of it all?

GLORY be the life of dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
Father-Mothering forth whose beauty is
all change.

with thanks to G. M. Hopkins

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