The Snow Man 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.
The Collected Poems, pp. 9-10
A Discovery of Thought
At the antipodes of poetry, dark winter, When the trees glitter with that which despoils them, Daylight evaporates, like a sound one hears in sickness.
One is a child again. The gold beards of waterfalls Are dissolved as in an infancy of blue snow. It is an arbor against the wind, a pit in the mist,
A trinkling in the parentage of the north, The cricket of summer forming itself out of ice. And always at this antipodes, of leaden loaves
Held in the hands of blue men that are lead within, One thinks that it could be that the first word spoken, The desire for speech and meaning gallantly fulfilled,
The gathering of the imbecile against his motes And the wry antipodes whirled round the world away— One thinks, when the houses of New England catch the first sun,
The first word would be of the susceptible being arrived, The immaculate disclosure of the secret no more obscured. The sprawling of winter might suddenly stand erect,
Pronouncing its new life and ours, not autumn’s prodigal returned, But an antipodal, far-fetched creature, worthy of birth, The true tone of the metal of winter in what it says:
The accent of deviation in the living thing That is its life preserved, the effort to be born Surviving being born, the event of life.
-- Opus Posthumous, pp. 122-23