Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) —
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet- Robert Frost
My favourite poem right now, and I’m repeating myself I know, but a country boy like me just can’t help himself. It’s funny the things we find precious though, isn’t it?