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]1 some divine expression
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The griеf it feels
This is the poem of the air
Slowly in silеnt syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field