Gossamer, lacy snowflakes;
Pure butterflies that God makes
Wingless, and with special care,
To silently swirl through the air.
Yours a life too short for yearning;
Yet how much you see in journeying,
As you spin from place of birth,
In your tumble-twirl to earth.
Sometimes I see you afar
And my hand steals out, to bar
Your descent; you resent my touch,
Loving freedom far too much.
It must be your martyr duty
To deny exquisite beauty.
I cannot make you stay;
My lovely captive melts away.
The body of each man must,
After death, become as dust;
Like the fallen flake it feeds
The earth's blanket of growing seeds.
But caught in the arms of the morning sun,
What has a drab dust fragment done,
Compared with a dew-drop nestling down,
A shimmering jewel on a rose's gown?