The holidays are here. Thanksgiving came and went. Now we only have two weeks until the children are off for Christmas. I have so much to do so I’m making my lists tomorrow so I can start checking it off (which is absolutely the best part of making a list).
My apologies to my followers for my long absence! Please forgive me. This is a poem for the season and for all of my friends in the North who are getting a blizzard!
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.