For now and then a wee flake sifted
Through the loose ill-fitting frame,
By the warmer breezes each was lifted
All melting as they came.
The baby stood with shining eyes,
Her hands upon the sill;
She watched each flake and the course 'twould take,
And her voice was never still.
'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"
And, "Where's all the beauty gone?