Some Trees
From Some Trees, by John Ashbery
And glad not to have invented
Such comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emergesA chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
(You can read the whole thing, and you should, at Blographia Literaria)