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Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

At the earliest ending of winter,

In March, a scrawny cry from

Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,

A bird's cry, at daylight or before,

In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,

No longer a battered panache above snow… It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism Of sleep's faded papier-mache… The sun was coming from the outside.

That scrawny cry—It wasA chorister whose c preceded the choir.

It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,

Still far away.

It was likeA new knowledge of reality.

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Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens (October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955) was an American modernist poet. He was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, educated at Harvard and…

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