two poems by Wallace Stevens, poet of climate, sun and earth:

"his self and the sun were one/ And his poems, although makings of his self,/ Were no less makings of the sun"

"We are physical beings in a physical world; the weather is one of the things that we enjoy, one of the unphilosophical realities. The state of the weather soon becomes a state of mind."

from "Credences of Summer"

Now in midsummer come and all fools slaughtered
        And spring's infuriations over and a long way
        To the first final autumnal inhalations, young broods
        Are in the grass, the roses are heavy with a weight
        Of fragrance and the mind lays by its trouble.

_______

It is the natural tower of all the world,
        The point of survey, green's green apogee,
        But a tower more precious than the view beyond,
        A point of survey squatting like a throne,
        Axis of everything, green's apogee

And happiest folk-land, mostly marriage hymns.
        It is the mountain on which the tower stands,
        It is the final mountain. Here the sun,
        Sleepless, inhales his proper air, and rests.
        This is the refuge that the end creates.

It is the old man standing on the tower,
        Who reads no book. His ruddy ancientness
        Absorbs the ruddy summer and is appeased,
        By an understanding that fulfils his age,
        By a feeling capable of nothing more.

.....and, never able to escape from the absence of sun, even in summer:

The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
        The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
        The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
        Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
        The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
        The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
        The access of perfection to the page.

The world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
        In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
        Is the reader leaning late and reading there.