At the earliest ending of winter, <br />In March, a scrawny cry from outside <br />Seemed like a sound in his mind. <br /> <br />He knew that he heard it, <br />A bird's cry, at daylight or before, <br />In the early March wind. <br /> <br />The sun was rising at six, <br />No longer a battered panache above snow... <br />It would have been outside. <br /> <br />It was not from the vast ventriloquism <br />Of sleep's faded papier-mache... <br />The sun was coming from the outside. <br /> <br />That scrawny cry--It was <br />A chorister whose c preceded the choir. <br />It was part of the colossal sun, <br /> <br />Surrounded by its choral rings, <br />Still far away. It was like <br />A new knowledge of reality.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-ideas-about-the-thing-but-the-thing-itself/
