Vladimir Nabokov peers through a stained glass window:

"The most constant source of enchantment during those readings came from the harlequin pattern of colored panes inset in a whitewashed framework on either side of the veranda.  The garden when viewed through these magic glasses grew strangely still and aloof.  If one looked through blue glass, the sand turned to cinders while inky trees swam in a tropical sky.  The yellow created an amber world infused with an extra strong brew of sunshine.  The red made the foliage drip ruby dark upon a pink footpath.  The green soaked greenery in a greener green.  And when, after such richness, one turned to a small square of normal, savorless glass, with its lone mosquito or lame daddy longlegs, it was like taking a draught of water when one is not thirsty, and one saw a matter-of-fact white bench under familiar trees.  But of all the windows this is the pane through which in later years parched nostalgia longed to peer."  (Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited, p. 79)