It is evening when one hears most clearly.
Losses drop like pebbles in a shallow well.
A steady hand in the long-shadowed light
Limns even the most delicate of ripples,
Leaves each thing as it is.
        Yet still the sickness, clumsy need
To wrestle with the pattern, make one blueprint
To explain all bricks.
                                    But system is a gift
Of art, its essence transcendental.
                        The most that we can hope
Is steadiness of soul,    courage
To render with exactness what is set before us,
Love what must
            each time we grasp it
                                            vanish.

Jan Zwicky, “Rosro, County Galway”, in Wittgenstein Elegies