beauty

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

The Devil and his Minions

My skull’s a chapel. So is yours. The thoughts go in and out like godly folk to mass. But what of hands that itch for gold? What of feet that burn to stray down all the soft and leafy paths to Hell, the truant heart that hungers for the love of mortal flesh? A man can’t live his life within his skull. His other members harry him. They drag him forth. The Devil and his minions lie in wait without.

Elric talking to Godric. From ‘Godric’, by Frederick Buechner

Cloud Pass

If once you can go through the Cloud-pass,

Then South, North, East, West,-you can go freely in any direction.

Resting at night, travelling by day,-all subject or object forgotten.

Wherever you plant your foot, there is purity and coolness.

Go through the Cloud pass and there is no more the old road.

The sky is blue and the sun bright,-the mountains are your home.

The wheel of the world turning and changing,-hard for men to attain truth !

But he who moves through it with folded hands, is noble-a golden dragon indeed.

Daito

Image: Kossu Dragon Textile Panel. C. 19th century. China.

Sleep


Do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is…that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. Who complains of want? of wounds? of cares? of great men’s oppressions? of captivity? whilst he sleepeth? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure kings: can we therefore surfeit on this delicate Ambrosia? Can we drink too much of that whereof to taste too little tumbles us into a churchyard, and to use it but indifferently throws us into Bedlam? No, no, look upon Endymion, the moon’s minion, who slept three score and fifteen years, and was not a hair the worse for it.

Thomas Dekker

Image:,’The Sleeping Endymion’. Simeon Solomon. 1887.

The East Wind


We must not think too unkindly even of the east wind. It is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its benignest moods; but there are seasons when I delight to feel its breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisable to throw open my bosom and take it into my heart, as I would its gentle sisters of the south and west.

Nathaniel Hawthorne