World.

Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

-Louis Macneice

This poem reminds me of Gulmarg. There was no snow and I do not remember if there were roses outside, but there is always that memory of sitting in an armchair by the window. Embroidered curtains with standing pine outside the glass and panelled pine inside, and hands balled into fists and pulled into the sleeves for warmth. And that feeling. Of sudden surprise at the quietness of the moment. And, as the poem says, the room was suddenly rich.

The drunkenness of things being various. I don't think there has been a better sentence written about the world.