That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.

There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

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.

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

All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know

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.