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.