Snowflakes 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 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.
Images: morning coffee along with current reading matter and makeup fancies, painting: Winter by Alexandre Zakhrov, my beloved piano forte, pumpkin, sweet potatoe and carrot soup from today's luncheon, snowfall in G minor from the woods this afternoon;-)
I adore the poem above by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It captures the mystical and elusive mood of snow-covered fields so beautifully. Trust you are all enjoying the festive season with friends and family. xx