high noon

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.
Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man

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