Snow-Flakes

I wonder what they are, These pretty, wayward things, That o'er the gloomy earth The wind of heaven flings.

Each one a tiny star, And each a perfect gem; What magic in the art That thus has fashioned them.

What beauty in the flake That falls upon my hand; And yet this tiny thing My will cannot command.

No two are just alike, And yet they are the same; I wonder if my thought Could give to each a name.

Unlike the fragile flowers That love the sun's warm rays, These snow-flakes love the cold, And die on sunny days!

So dainty and so pure, How beautiful they are; And yet the slightest touch Their purity may mar.

They must be gazed upon, Not handled or caressed; And thus we hold afar The things we love the best.