Friday, December 28, 2007

Snow-Flakes by Longfellow

In the mail today I got a postcard from The Academy of American Poets, of which I am a member. (No qualification required, other than an appreciation of poetry and a fee). The card wished me Season's Greetings and included this poem from Henry Wadworth Longfellow, whose poems are resonating with me lately.

This one is called Snow-Flakes

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.

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