Snow-Flakes
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
|
| Out of the bosom of the air |
| Out of
the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, |
| Over the woodlands brown and
bare, |
| Over the
harvest-fields forsaken, |
|
Silent, and soft, and slow |
Descends the snow.
|
| Even as our cloudy fancies take |
| Suddenly
shape in some divine expression, |
| Even as the troubled heart doth
make |
| In the
white countenance confession, |
|
The troubled sky reveals |
The grief it feels.
|
| This is the poem of the air |
| Slowly
in silent syllables recorded; |
| This is the secret of despair, |
| Long in
its cloudy bosom hoarded, |
|
Now whispered and revealed |
To wood and
field.
|
| |
