Can you look in the spirit of Gertrude Stein’s saying, “One sees what one sees”?
It may be impossible. It certainly may be absurd to say “One.”
No matter what Yeats says, the paired turbulences of air lifting living wings have more worth than all the gold in Byzantium.
It’s not an omen or a emblem, it’s an an insect. It has nothing to do with (for instance) hope. There’s a reason why the sermon is no longer a living literary genre. But
The vehicle of the metaphor, 1934:
A tenor, eternally recurring: