Outside the open windowThe morning air is all awash with angels.

Seed Leaves Homage to R. F. Here something stubborn comes,Dislodging the earth crumbsAnd making crusty rubble.it comes up bending double,And looks like a green staple.It could be seedling maple,Or artichoke, or bean.That remains to be...

If the king had given me for my ownParis, his citadel,And I for that must leave aloneHer whom I love so well,I’d say then to the CrownTake back your glittering townMy darling is more fair,...

The little dog lay curled and did not rise But slept the deeper as the ashes rose, And found the people incomplete

What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.

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...

To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men.

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.