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.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

O wonderful world of white!

When trees are hung with lace,

And the rough winds chide,

And snowflakes hide

Each break unsheltered place;

When birds and brooks are dumb,—what then?

O, round we go to the green again!

—G. Cooper, “’Round the Year.”