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.