By a Window

 

Oh, silver boats in midnight seas,

Or weary swarms of ghostly bees

Seem all those fleecy mites of snow

Which hesitate, and drop smoke-slow,

Divinely chaste, adrift out there,

Each like a saddened angel’s tear.

 

Ah me ! if sometime in my soul

The crystal fountains lip their bowl

And spill away some tears as chaste

As those that angels seem to waste,

I shall not wish them back again

Nor dream of hurt, nor dream of pain.

 

Arthur Wilson.