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 

Decends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

Sudden 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.