He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window. - Charles Baudelaire

But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

All great poets become naturally, fatally, critics.