Then the sea and heaven rolled as one and from the two came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue. - Wallace Stevens

The wind in which the dead leaves blow. Here I inhale profounder strength And as I am, I speak and move And things are as I think they are And say they are on the blue guitar.

Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.