  Of specious weight like tissue freight The snowflakes are—in sparkle pure As the rich parure A lovely queen were proud to wear; As volatile, as fine and rare As thistle-down dispersed in air, Or bits of filmy lace; Like nature's tear-drops strewn around That beautify and warm the ground, But melt upon my face. A ton or more against my door They lie, and look, in form and tint, Like piles of lint, When war's alarum roused the land, Wrought out by woman's loyal hand From linen rag, and robe, and band— From garments cast aside— In hospital, on battle-field The shattered limb that bound and healed, Or stanched life's ebbing tide. I see the gleam of lake and stream, The silver glint in frost portrayed Of the bright cascade; The dew of the lawn, or river bank, The river itself by sunlight drank; All these in frigid air, That strange alembic, crystallize In odd, fantastic shape and size Like gems of dazzling glare. Oh, of the snow such fancies grow, 'Till thought is lost in wandering, And wondering If portions of their drapery The angel beings, sad to see So much of earth's impurity, Have dropped from clearer skies As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot To make this world a fairer spot, And more like Paradise. |
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