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.