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.
