delicious trouble

 

.

Each of us inevitable,
Each of us limitless

Each of us with his or her
right upon the earth,

Each of us allow’d the eternal purports of the earth,

Each of us here
as divinely as any is here.

[...]


The sun and stars that float in the open air... the appleshaped earth and we upon it... surely the drift of them is something grand;

I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,

And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,

And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,

And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.

[...]



To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, 

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, 

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; 

Every spear of grass - the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. 


—Walt Whitman

.

This the spirit that Beauty must ever induce, wonderment and a delicious trouble, longing and love and a trembling that is all delight.

For the unseen all this may be felt as for the seen; and this is the Soul's feel for it, every Soul in some degree, but those the more deeply that are the more truly apt to this higher love – just as all take delight in the beauty of the body but all are not stung as sharply, and those only that feel the keener wound are known as Lovers.

These Lovers, then, lovers of the beauty outside of sense, must be made to declare themselves.


—Plotinus

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