A Mind Of Winter

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 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