This Longfellow poem always gives me a frisson. I took these pictures almost exactly three years ago, and feel that they match perfectly. I always think of them both, together, at this time of year.
Snowflakes
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.
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.
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.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
how I wish it would snow.
Oh, I love that poem and your pictures together, so beautiful!! I wish it would snow, too. :) PS missed not seeing you and your wonderful family on New Years, we should hang out soon.
ReplyDeleteFrancie
Thanks! I missed you too. It was downright odd not having the New Years bash, but hopefully next year, if all the babies don't tire us out too much.
DeleteYes, we most definitely should hang out. Facebook message me and we'll work out details.
So lovely. Like you.
ReplyDeleteI took these on my way back to Philly just a couple days after Jay's funeral. It was crazy cold, and so moody, but transcendant too.
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