One must have a mind of winter



To regard the frost and the boughs



Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;







And have been cold a long time



To behold the junipers shagged with ice,



The spruces rough in the distant glitter







Of the January sun; and not to think



Of any misery in the sound of the wind,



In the sound of a few leaves,







Which is the sound of the land



Full of the same wind



That is blowing in the same bare place







For the listener, who listens in the snow,



And, nothing himself, beholds



Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.





