aesthetics

Sun’s Gold

The Moon-drawn juices mount; the leaves distil, the Sun’s gold heart-beats into chlorophyll. Out of the Plant’s green blood man’s red is wrought, while stars rain down to gild his brow with thought.

Isabel Wyatt

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Mutability


We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability!

Percy Bysshe Shelley