Her eyes were kindled from the lamps of Heaven. Her voice reached through me, tender, sweet and low: An angel's voice, a music of its own. And in the center, great wings spread apart, more than a thousand festive angels shone, each one distinct in radiance, and in art.
How shall the mighty river
reach the tiny seed?
See it rise silently
to the sun's yearning,
sail from a winter's cloud
flake after silent flake
piling up layer upon layer
until the thaw of spring
to meet the seedling's need.
Make tender, my heart:
release through gentleness
Thine own tremendous power
hid in the snowflake's art.
