The Ground hog saw his shadow in Pennsylvania yesterday and wisely retreated back in his burrow. CT ground hogs surely did the same and today’s snow proved them wise too. Margaret at Away to Garden talks about the flabby beasts in her most recent post, and she did get me laughing in this otherwise dull season for gardeners. This day calls for observing the snow fall, feeding the birds, and of course, healthy doses of poetry.
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.