Still will I harvest beauty where it grows: In coloured fungus and the spotted fog Surprised on foods forgotten; in ditch and bog Filmed brilliant with irregular rainbows Of rust and oil, where half a city throws Its empty tins; and in some spongy log Whence headlong leaps the oozy emerald frog... And a black pupil in the green scum shows. Her the inhabiter of divers places Surmising at all doors, I push them all. Oh, you that fearful of a creaking hinge Turn back forevermore with craven faces, I tell you Beauty bears an ultra fringe Unguessed of you upon her gossamer shawl!
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep; So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
Nothing of man can be built of stone sturdy enough or steel resistant enough to become ancient by mere persistence.
It must be loved. Someone must clean the grass from the cracks, must scrub moss & mold, must replace pieces that slough off... (& must do it all with tender craftsmanship.)
I suspect anything ancient that's higher than my knee is a Theseus's ship: rebuilt stone by stone through the ages until only a wafting idea of the place remains ancient.
When one makes god of wealth, Light glows from yellow "gold," But the lavish withers -- Even as its deeps take hold.
Fog at the river's edge. Red apricots, woods enfold. Moon shine on bower's flowers. Painted bridge in green shadow. An old bowl full of wine, As a friend's lute song unfolds. Make your bliss of such things, And they will be your true gold.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a crude translation of the ninth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 绮丽, and its translated titles include: “Beautiful,” “Intricate,” and “Embroideries.”
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best the painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee. Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summer's pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
An evergreen and a red, red rose: One slowly, but dully, ever grows; One springs to life only for a short time. Lifespan pine and beauty rose, apposed? And risk vice versa? One never knows!
Tiger Riding for Beginners 