From the center of the giant room
almost all the paintings looked alike,
but then one caught my eye: a soothing square
of burgundy, surrounded by black dots
and bordered by a plain gold frame. At last
I worked my courage up and walked its way:
a battle scene explained the burgundy,
the black dots were burnt branches—someone’s idea
of pathos?—and the frame now gleamed with shells
and overripe fruit. I looked away in shock,
only to find that all the other paintings
were thrown into new, startling relief:
the cool remoteness of a dead madonna,
the heart-stopping mystery of a Dutch interior.