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.

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