fpNOW fLAKES. 
/|\UT 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 clouded 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 IV. Longfellow. 
258 
