"Out of the bottom 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
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;
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To the wood and field."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
One of the struggles of decorating for Christmas, has been seeing my Grandmothers handwriting on everything.
-Mick-
2 comments:
My dad died in 1986, and it still makes me sad to run across something in his handwriting, so I know how hard it is for you after so short a time.
What is it about their handwriting that is so personal, more so than almost anything else?
I found a piece of paper in a box of things my grandmother had saved that had a grocery list that she had written. I cherish it. I totally get what you are talking about, Mick.
Erica
Post a Comment