The secret that Nabokov said he knew
Is that a pebble gleaming like a jewel in surf
Is really the jewel, and never was the pebble,
No matter what your grasping fingers tell you.
A string of lights you wind around a pole
Is not a string of lights around a pole
But rather an enchantment, faerie-made,
That makes a mockery of the mundane world –
The worldly world, which naïvely dreams
That nothing is as wonderful as it seems.
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