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.