Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee
Whether the summer clothe the general earth with greenness or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw
Whether the eve-drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast
Or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
Frost at Midnight
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Today’s image
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