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.