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NABOKOV, Vladimir

Pale Fire


I was the shadow of the waxwing slain

By the false azure in the windowpane

I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I

Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky,

And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate

Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:

Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass

Hang all the furniture above the grass,

And how delightful when a fall of snow

Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so

As to make chair and bed exactly stand

Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!