"Snow-Flakes" by
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.
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