Snowflakes Are the Poem of the Air

Snow-flakes

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-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. 

     We've been having snow days lately- sipping hot earl grey while watching Doctor Who kind of days.  Reading books under mountains of blankets kind of days.  Big sweaters and cold hands kind of days.  Winter's last hurrah before spring marches in kind of days.  Top of the world and couldn't be better kind of days.  Snow days.  When the dead and silent fields are covered in sparkling white clothes and the sky spills its secrets into the poem of the air.