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.
