Thursday, February 24, 2011


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. 


Emma Rose said...


Leanne said...

Gosh, when did Bea turn from a pup to a young lady?! She's looking so grown up!

RYKER said...

Fabulous Post. Love the photos and the poem. I see two ears up now! Almost didn't recognize her!
So cool how Ranger seems to melt into the snowy background.