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.