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

What's lightly hid is deepest understood.

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

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

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

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.

The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.