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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=373582" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Art</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=373582" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The whole chorus saying only one thing: look<br>at what goes, where we stand in the midst of it:<br>Golden eyes of the beginning, deep patience<br>of the end. Stone-deaf, the rocks in silence<br>are writing our lives: mossed, or lichen- daubed<br>to brightness, their gravity is here to stay. . .<br>but so is the butterfly winged with light<br>and in a dozen minds at once, letting its life<br>be wamble and whim as air determines, though still<br>a fixed purpose sticks to it, it knows the score<br>the chorus follows as one voice, singing<br>Light whelms, whelms, and will end us, while<br>a painter, old, is leaning slightly to the right or left.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Eamon+Grennan">Eamon Grennan</a></strong></div>

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