Poetry Response #8

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 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]

Last week for our timed essay, one of the poems was by Longfellow and I really liked it after a while of studying it. Then in choir we were singing an art song (a song where a composer takes a poem and puts it to music) and this particular art song happened to be by Longfellow. It excited me so I decided to analyze my choir music this week! For some reason, this poem made me think of how humans hold their grief in. We are really privet people, we Americans. Especially back in the day dear old Henry was writing this! The earth isn't like that though, not really. When the grief surfaces, then comes the clouds. When the tears start rolling, then comes the rain. And when the heart starts weeping, then comes the snow. "Slowly in the silent syllables recorded/this is the secret of despair." I think the silent tears we cry are the most sincere, the most selfless. Now I have absolutely no idea if this is Longfellow meant, but I think sometimes the poet doesn't necessarily want a poem to be read the same way. Poetry is a little bit like a symphony; whether it's major or minor makes it feel different, but the audience chooses to create the depth.