Scotland

Beauty is not a pretty thing.

Beauty has guts, and probing roots

That vie and tangle in the soil,

And feed the blooms that feed the bees.

Beauty is not from yesterday;

It carries the weight of centuries

Across its broad and crooked back

When it comes hobbling down the lane.

And beauty isn’t easy.  Beauty’s hard.

It makes demands; it won’t negotiate.

A cruel master and a crueler love,

It bends or breaks you, and it has its way.

But beauty’s worth it.  Beauty’s worth the pain,

The toil, the sleepless nights, the blood, the years;

It roots us in a past in which our souls,

Blind, bold and timeless, chant their homesick songs,

And beauty listens, and its ears are ours.