The English language is nobody's special property.
The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.
The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
We look and see what we see in a mirror, and we believe it. That's important, the question of belief. The question is: Should we believe what we see in a mirror?