O BEAUTIFUL snowflake! fold thy wings,
And tell us what thou hast seen
Of the hidden realms and mysterious things
Where thy fairy feet have been?

“Long, long ago I had my birth
On a mountain hoar and high;
With a burst of mirth I sprang from the earth
To the light of a summer sky.

“With my merry mates I danced along
To the bright vales far away;
We were young and strong, and sung a sweet song
To the gentle flowers of May.

“Away in the golden noontide beam,
In the shadows weird and wild,
Through gloom and gleam I danced with the stream,
Like a happy-hearted child.

“I never recked of cloud nor storm,
Till the south wind came one day,
And changed my form with his breath so warm
To a mist, and bore me away.

“I was not alone, and our blue simars,
Up-trailing from vales and rills,
Were woven with bars of the midnight stars
In a crown for the ancient hills.

“I was changed again by mystic art,
As the nightly hours rolled on,
And woke with a start in a rose's heart,
When the stars went out at dawn.

“Brighter and fairer the young rose grew,
And I loved her, that happy hour,
With a love as true as a drop of dew
E'er bore to a peerless flower.

“But the sunlight came from the morning skies
To our bower of love and bliss,
Bedazzled my eyes with his wondrous guise,
And bore me away with a kiss;

“Away, away, o'er hill and plain,
Where the skylark never sings;
But I came again in the summer rain
That painted the rainbow's wings.

“From my airy height I chanced to light
In a torrent wild and free,
And I slept that night by the soft moonlight
In the arms of the mighty sea.

“I heard the voice of the angry waves
As the storm-king thundered by,
And I saw the graves in the hidden caves
Where the lost and lovely lie.

“I dreamed of the bright things far away,
And sighed for my love in vain,
Till I strove with the spray, one winter day,
And was changed to a mist again.

“But, alas! the earth was bleak and cold,
The winds went wailing by,
And the clouds were rolled in many a fold
Along the dreary sky.

“‘Oh, where is my beautiful love?’ I sighed,
‘I have sought her to and fro.’
Then a voice replied, ‘Thy blossom-bride
Died a thousand years ago.’

“And where is the gentle stream that sprung
From the hoary mountain's brow—
The stream that sung, when I was young—
Where, where is my old home now?

“Alas! for me no friends remain;
No home, no love below!
I sighed in vain, with a bitter pain,
And froze to a flake of snow.”