In my room, the world is beyond my understanding,
But when I walk, I see that it consists of three or four hills and
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.''
-- "Of the Surface of Things,'' by the late Wallace Stevens, Hartford insurance executive and Pulitzer Prize-winning poet.