Snow Flakes

Ian Stephens

Snow-Flakes

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



Snow as an expression of grief.  I don’t usually associate snow with pain, but as I read and reread this poem, it begins to make sense. Longfellow explains that the things on our mind sometimes seem to come to life in the world around us, to take shape in nature. So his hidden and long-held close  grief seems to express itself in snowfall. Like frozen tears, maybe. That line, “Slowly in silent syllables recorded.” is beautiful – and isn’t it true? People don’t always say what’s on their hearts, but it shows in silent ways, it comes out in choices, in little actions, it gives itself away even while we try to hold it back. Is that what Longfellow means by “the secret of despair”? The wanting to hide our pain? I hope nature will speak for us, too, when we are unable.