By Thomas Page

Whatever brilliant shade that happens

Upon a petal or blade inspires

The mind’s eye to a world hued with the

Intensity of everlasting springs

That beget ever-knowing happiness.

Nature preserved in Keats’ frieze, an urn

Adorned with the ultimate perfection

As gauged by an imperfect eye wishing

For it to be so. Shades with no name and

Tints to be invented by brains thirsting

For a more ordered universe out there.

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