Out of the bosom of the Air,

          Out of the clouds-folds of her garment 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