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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 outside
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 was A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun, Surrounded by its choral rings, Still far away.
It was like A new knowledge of reality.

by Wallace Stevens
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