There are things in a man besides his reason.
Come home, wind, he kept crying and crying.
Snow glistens in its instant in the air,
Instant of millefiori bluely magnified--
Come home, wind, he said as he climbed the stair.
Crystal on crystal until crystal clouds
Become an over-crystal out of ice,
Exhaling these creations of itself.
There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.
The tinsel of August falling was like a flame
That breathed on ground, more blue than red, more red
Than green, fidgets of all-related fire.
The wind is like a dog that runs away.
But it is like a horse. It is like motion
That lives in space. It is a person at night,
A member of the family, a tie,
An ethereal cousin, another milleman.
-- Wallace Stevens