So much depends not only on a red wheelbarrow and white chickens but the reader's frame of mind. I live in New Hampshire where the winters are long and cold. Some nights I love curling up with a big book for hours of pleasure. At other times, I need a quick peek at something that still takes away my breath, be it a piece by Frost or something more complicated by Eliot. Making a definitive choice between two flawless gems is therefore impossible.