Keats magic casement is not merely the vision of a Romantic, but that of every child that has witnessed the world as fresh. It is the casement where the O of astonishment lifts their cheeks and opens their lips in silent awe, the casement where amazement, exultation, exuberance, and transcendence appear.
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Perhaps Beauty isn’t something I can write about directly. Maybe it’s more like saying something with the look in your eyes, rather than with the words from your mouth. Maybe Beauty is something that only your heart sees, and therefore only your heart can truly talk about
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There are traces of the beautiful in the barrel, the barrow, the cultured back yard — evidence, yes, but the thing itself escapes me. I write about throwing pots as a metaphor for this small practice of mine. Trying to find the beautiful form.
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I was returning from my morning walk, enjoying a spectacular sunrise on the river. It occurred to me then that particularly striking sunrises always had some clouds in the picture. It was the clouds that lit up for a brief moment, transformed from a dull grey into luminous shades of orange and gold
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when you see inside – the beauty of the whole world – shines forth from the depths
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