Yesterday, Pope Francis is reported to have said, in reference to the mystery of Easter, "To enter into the mystery means going beyond our own comfort zone, beyond the laziness and indifference which hold us back, and going out in search of truth, beauty and love." That strikes me as also providing a wonderful key to the mystery of life in a sustainable world. Can we agree to commit ourselves to such a search?
The Pope was not reported as having said anything about the color blue, perhaps because the Easter vigil service started in darkness. So, today's hues of blue are brought to us not by the Pope, but by the bluebird of happiness.
- Paris Blue: Definition (see Synonyms) Images
- Possuoli Blue: Definition (scroll down) Images
- Sky Blue: Definition Images
Robert Frost's poem doesn't mention blue, but, as I read it, it does pick up nicely on the Pope's theme of "truth, beauty and love." That'll do for me.
butterflies on a tuft of flowers
Photo by J. Harrington
The Tuft of Flowers
I went to turn the grass once after oneWho mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keenBefore I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,And I must be, as he had been,—alone,
As all must be,' I said within my heart,Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me byOn noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er nightSome resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to lookAt a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had sparedBeside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
I left my place to know them by their name,Finding them butterfly weed when I came.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speechWith one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
Men work together,' I told him from the heart,Whether they work together or apart.'
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