Martyred beneath a microscope,
One elaborate snow-flake slowly pass,
Dying hard, beyond the reach of hope.
Still from shape to shape the crystal changed,
Writhing in its agony; and still,
Less and less elaborate, arranged
Potently the angle of its will.
Tortured to a simple final form,
Angles six and six divergent beams,
Lo, in death it touched the perfect norm,
Verifying all its crystal dreams.
- John Davidson, Snow