An old favorite.

The Poems of Our Climate
by Wallace Stevens

I
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations - one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.

II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.

III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

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Now, as winter ends and afternoons return, as plans are made and anticipation fills our chests, I am reminded of this. While we desire "complete simplicity", that "world of white and snowy scents", it is not satisfying. The "vital I" throws us into discontent, restlessness, questioning, doubting, struggling, making us human. What, then, is beauty? What is the aim? It is conflictual, uncomfortable, controversial, challenging, asymmetrical and dis-proportioned. What does it look like? Where does it lie? Are we to proclaim this humanity, or still keep our eyes to the brilliant-edged heavens?

Oh, springtime.