Not, where the stairway turns in the darkA hooded figure, shriveled under a flowing cloak!Not yellow eyes in the room at night,Staring out from a surface of cobweb gray!And not the flap of a condor wingWhen the roar of life in your ears beginsAs a sound heard never before!But on a sunny afternoon,By a country road,Where purple rag-weeds bloom along a straggling fenceAnd the field is gleaned, and the air is stillTo see against the sun-light something blackLike a blot with an iris rim—That is the sign to eyes of second sight. . .And that I saw!
Spoon River Anthology · Edgar Lee Masters