I heard about a Frost poem last night, “Nothing Gold Can Stay”:

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

This poem chimes with something I’d written earlier in the day, another comment on the emergence of a conception, too new for language.

“Everything is at its best just before it figures out what it is.”