This is the poem of the air
❄❄❄❄
Snowflakes

Snow-flakes
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.