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.
There is so much to like in this poem, but I can never get past that great last line. Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. It still sends shivers of surprise down my spine, so many years after I first read it.
The Jane Austen Project? Not forgotten, not abandoned. Nor, alas, done. But I am getting there. Slowly.
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