These Snow-Flakes On Your Face

These Snow-Flakes On Your Face

Out of the bosom of the air,
         Out of the cloud-folds of God's garments shaken,
Over the cities brash 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 does make
         In the white countenance confession,
                   The happy sky reveals
                   The love it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
         Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is my secret and my care,
         Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
                   Now whispered and revealed
                   To crowd and field.