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

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

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.

What's lightly hid is deepest understood.

Odd that a thing is most itself when likened

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

The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.