We are all fauns and satyrs aspiring to become angels, ugly creatures labouring at our embellishment, monstrous chrysalids trying to become butterflies.

Potent and shapely, ne'ertheless, Draws the rogue his flexible limbs, Body firm yet elastic, Craftily forth; the purple shell, Him so grievously binding, Leaving quietly in its place; As the perfected butterfly, From the rigid chrysalid, Pinion unfolding, rapidly glides, Boldly and wantonly sailing through Sun-impregnated ether.