There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.