“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
Even as our cloudly 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 bosom hoarded
Now whispered and revealed to wood and field
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Winter Night”
Pile high the hickory and the light.. log of chestnut struck by the blight… welcome in the winter night
The day has gone in hewing and felling.. sawing and drawing wood to the dwelling.. for the night of talk and story-telling
These are the hours that give the edge.. to the blunted axe and the bent wedge…straighten the saw and lighten the sledge
Here are question and reply.. and the fire reflected in the thinking eye.. So peace, and let bob-cat cry
~Edna St. Vincent Millay
