I was the shadow of the waxwing slain, by the false azure of 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!
from Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov