Of the Surface of Things, by Wallace Stevens


In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.


From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
“The spring is like a belle undressing.”


The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.

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