Come, ye cold winds, at January's call, On whistling wings, and with white flakes bestrew The earth.
John RuskinImperfection is in some sort essential to all that we know of life. It is the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress and change. Nothing that lives is, or can be rigidly perfect; part of it is decaying, part nascent.
John Ruskin