Snow-Flakes

by 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.
 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Classic Poems
 

Hiawatha ] [ Snow - Flakes ]

 
 

 


 

 

 
 
 
 

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