Vladimir Nabokov - The Poem lyrics

Not the sunset poem you make when you think aloud, with its linden tree in India ink and the telegraph wires across its pink cloud; not the mirror in you and her delicate bare shoulder still glimmering there; not the lyrical click of a pocket rhyme-- the tiny music that tells the time; and not the pennies and weights on those evening papers piled up in the rain; not the cacodemons of carnal pain, not the things you can say so much better in plain prose -- but the poem that hurtles from heights unknown -- when you wait for the splash of the stone deep below, and grope for your pen, and then comes the shiver, and then -- in the tangle of sounds, the leopards of words, the leaf-like insects, the eye-spotted birds fuse and form a silent, intense, mimetic pattern of perfect sense.