It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; they constitute his ideal audience and his better self.

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

Odd that a thing is most itself when likened

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.

What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?

Happy in all that ragged, loose collapse of water, the fountain, its effortless descent and flatteries of spray.