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.
Snow. We haven't had any yet, have you? I'm not sure I want the reality of snow just yet -- driving in it, shoveling it. But if I think of snow as "the poem of the air," then I'm just about overcome with anticipation.
Make your own snowflake at Make-a-Flake.
Check out all things snow at SnowCrystals.com.
Snowflake Bentley's website is here. The image I used is one he made. According to the website, "Wilson Bentley did not copyright his photographs and thus they are in the public domain and free to use for any purpose." You just can't sell them, or make them into something to sell. Thank you, Mr. Bentley.
The Poetry Friday round up is at Yat-Yee Chong.