by archer

i am a clay statue, suspended in elegance.
how sweet, how lovely, for one's job to be to convey emotion endlessly.
how sweet to be carved carefully by a master craftsman,
every vein, every muscle, and every crease on my body
unconditionally beautiful just because of the amount of thought.
to be admired by all the world,
to be critiqued,
to be complimented,
to teach,
to be taught--
such is the life of a statue. 
to transcend generations, allowing my paint to chip,
allowing my features to weather, because it conveys wisdom.

8 God Is Beautiful

Oh, Thou art beautiful! and Thou dost bestow
Thy beauty on this stillness — still as sheep
The Hills lie under Thee; the Waters deep
Murmur for joy of Thee; the voids below
Mirror Thy strange fair Vapours as they flow;
And now, afar upon the barren height,
Thou sendest down a radiant look of light
So that the still Peaks glisten, and a glow
Rose-colour'd tints the little snowy cloud
That poises on the highest peak of all.
Oh, Thou art beautiful! — the Hills are bowed
Beneath Thee; on Thy name the soft Winds call —

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