One of the countrymen:
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　There is
　　　A welcome at the door to which no one comes?

The angel:

　　　I am the angel of reality,
　　　Seen for a moment standing in the door.

　　　I have neither ashen wing nor wear of ore
　　　And live without a tepid aureole,

　　　Or stars that follow me, not to attend,
　　　But, of my being and its knowing, part.

　　　I am one of you and being one of you
　　　Is being and knowing what I am and know.

　　　Yet I am the necessary angel of earth,
　　　Since, in my sight, you see the earth again,

　　　Cleared of its stiff and stubborn, man-locked set,
　　　And, in my hearing, you hear its tragic drone

　　　Rise liquidly in liquid lingerings,
　　　Like watery words awash; like meanings said

　　　By repetitions of half-meanings. Am I not,
　　　Myself, only half of a figure of a sort,

　　　A figure half seen, or seen for a moment, a man
　　　Of the mind, an apparition apparelled in

　　　Apparels of such lightest look that a turn
　　　Of my shoulder and quickly, too quickly, I am gone?