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Poetry



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THE PAINTING

When I was sleeping in the sun
A window seeped into my eyes:
Bright green, soft green, then overrun
With orange. There was no gift, no prize

Greater than seeing it, no thought
Of anything behind that square.
Nothing was missing, nothing sought –
Nothing to do but sleep and stare.

What will He give of light, of bliss,
Who has already given this?

— This poem appears in the July 21, 2014, issue of National Review.



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