It was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity - Thomas Hardy

We learn that it is not the rays which bodies absorb, but those which they reject, that give them the colours they are known by;

There was no wind, in a human sense; but a steady stertorous breathing from the fir-trees showed that, now as always, there was movement in apparent stagnation.

And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. Alien they seemed to be; No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event, Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.