Out of the bosom of the Air br Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, br Over the woodlands brown and bare, br Over the harvest-fields forsaken, br Silent, and soft, and slow br Descends the snow. br br Even as our cloudy fancies take br Suddenly shape in some divine expression, br Even as the troubled heart doth make br In the white countenance confession br The troubled sky reveals br The grief it feels. br br This is the poem of the air, br Slowly in silent syllables recorded; br This is the secret of despair, br Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, br Now whispered and revealed br To wood and field.