A terrible beauty is born.
The beauty and futility of life was in Yeats' mind when he wrote 'Easter 1916". On a smaller level, the same thought occurred to me when I saw this moth in the bathroom. I looked and looked and could not get enough of the intricacy of the wing pattern. The markings simulate a proud, angry, cruel face. The unveiling of the terrible beauty to the would-be predator is only a last resort, though. The shy moth prefers to hide and its colouring is marvelously suited for camouflage. As if to emphasize this gentleness, the wing edges are frilled.
Multiple levels of protection, multiple strategies to survive. All for a life spent in a desperate attempt to procreate and lasts a few days- if it is so lucky.
A waste? Who are we to say so?
But Yeats answered his own question, I think..
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?