Out of the bosom¹ of the Air，

    Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken，

    Over the woodlands brown and bare，

    Over the harvest-fields forsaken²，

    Silent， and soft， and slow

    Descends³ the snow.

    Even as our cloudy fancies take

    Suddenly shape in some divine expression，

    Even as the troubled heart doth make

    In the white countenance⁴ confession⁵，

    The troubled sky reveals

    The grief it feels.

    This is the poem of the air，

    Slowly in silent syllables⁶ recorded；

    This is the secret of despair，

    Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded⁷，

    Now whispered and revealed

    To wood and field.