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joetheplumberpoet.com - 12/10 'The Masters'
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12/10 'The Masters'
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12/10 'The Masters'

        Snowflakes

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.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
       1807-1882
    
Winter and melancholy, I get it !
   J J