Snow Flakes

Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her bosom shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the suow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Sudden "shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the while countenance confession, The troubled sky reveáis The grief it feels. This is the poera of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded : This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whisuered and revealer! To ivood and field.