The snowflake

See, now, this filigree: 'tis snow,

Shaped in the void of heavenly dew;

On winds of space like flower to blow

In a wilderness of blue.

Black are those pines. The utter cold

Hath frozen to silence the birds' green woods.

Rime hath ensteeled the wormless mould,

A vacant quiet broods.

Lo, this entranced thing! — a breath

Of Life that bids Man's heart to crave

Still for perfection, ere fall death

And earth remains his grave.