Snowflakes.

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;     They bear the moisture of marshes dank,     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.