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