Longfellow and Longmudge — To Wood and Field

Snow-flakes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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 hear doth  make
     In the white  countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
     The grief it feels.

This is the poem out of the air, Out
     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.

In the Wood by Mr. Longmudge

Over the harvest-fields forsaken

Silent. and soft, and slow

Descends the snow

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded

Now whispered and revealed

To wood and field

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