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.
- Wallace Stevens
Judicial Watch Asks Federal Court to Compel Records from ATF on Reclassification of AR-15 Ammunition - For More Than Three Years ATF Evaded FOIA Request; Agency Withholding 1,900 Pages of Records (Washington, DC) — Judicial Watch announced today that it f...
2 hours ago