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.