A sunny day's complete Poussiniana <br />Divide it from itself. It is this or that <br />And it is not. <br />By metaphor you paint <br />A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit, <br />A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue, <br />To be served by men of ice. <br />The senses paint <br />By metaphor. The juice was fragranter <br />Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears <br />Dripping a morning sap. <br />The truth must be <br />That you do not see, you experience, you feel, <br />That the buxom eye brings merely its element <br />To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced <br />Upward. <br />Green were the curls upon that head.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-written-at-morning/
