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.
(Wallace Stevens, Reading, Pennsylvania, 2 October 1879 – 2 August 1955)
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the poemarium 
So contemporary, like a zen meditation. I am always nearly afraid of his most commanding voice. He must have been quite a presence in the office that Mr. Stevens in Hartford, Connecticut. I visited your blog today looking for more free stuff on the web about Francis Ponge but was sideways tracked by the Station. Like affinity for poets.
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