Dew Quotes

I’ll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

People will not bear it when advice is violently given, even if it is well founded. Hearts are flowers; they remain open to the softly falling dew, but shut up in the violent downpour of rain.

The Holy Scriptures praise the dew of the morning and the dew of the evening; ros matutinum, ros serotinum! Happy is he who possesses the gift of tears! when young, he will bear flowers; when old, fruit!

She’s as fetching as brown hair done up with ribbons blue The mountain, my lady She’s as sweet as pink flowers made bright with morning dew, Mount Eskel, my lady

Come, come, my conservative friend, wipe the dew off your spectacles, and see that the world is moving.

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.

A faint blush melting through the light of thy transparent cheek like a rose-leaf bathed in dew.

A gush of bird song, a patter of dew
A cloud and a rainbow’s warning;
Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue
An April day in the morning!

I planted my self in the middle of a great many Glasses full of Dew, tied fast about me, upon which the Sun so violently darted his Rays, that the Heat, which attracted them, as it does the thickest Clouds, carried me up so high, that at length I found my self above the middle Region of the Air.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink’

A great acacia, with its slender trunk
And overpoise of multitudinous leaves.
(In which a hundred fields might spill their dew
And intense verdure, yet find room enough)
Stood reconciling all the place with green.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace.

In friendship let there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants.

We blossom under praise like flowers in sun and dew; we open, we reach, we grow.

Thou slanting rain! Thou Hebe of the Skies, That pours out drink to Earth; thou faithful wife That with moist tears embraces her prone lord. Thou mist intensified; thou double dew That drowns the drought, that heals the parched and burnt — Thou resurrection rain.

The best fragrance is the scent of water, the fragrance of dew and rain falling on plants. Water is the essential element, a source of life and energy. A perfume that, like a garment, moves to suit the woman, her skin. A perfume that embraces a woman.

A woman’s love is like the morning dew. It’s just as likely to settle on a horse turd as a rose.

I was fifteen then, too young to fall in-love. Or maybe it is only then, with dew of childhood still in my eyes, that I was capable of such love. I will never know, of course.

There is a tiny yellow daffodil, The butterfly can see it from afar, Although one summer evening’s dew could fill Its little cup twice over, ere the star Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold, And be no prodigal.

I long for wildness, a nature which I cannot put my foot through, woods where the wood thrush forever sings, where the hours are early morning ones, and there is dew on the grass, and the day is forever unproved, where I might have a fertile unknown for a soil about me.

Nature is sanative, refining, elevating. How cunningly she hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses, and violets, and morning dew! Every inch of the mountains is scarred by unimaginable convulsions, yet the new day is purple with the bloom of youth and love.

Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?

Jewish prayers are mostly about daily things – the sliver of a new moon, dew on the grass, the bread and the wine.

Misfortune sprinkles ashes on the head of the man, but falls like dew on the heart of the woman, and brings forth [gems] of strength of which she herself had no conscious possession.

I’m young as morning and fresh as dew. Everybody loves me and so do you.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe, –
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

The smile that flickers on a baby’s lips when he sleeps- does anyone know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumor that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning.

The person who doesn’t scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs.

Yon rosebuds in the morning-dew, how pure amang the leaves sae green!

Love is a flower that blooms so tender, each kiss a dew drop of sweet surrender. Love is a moment of life enchanting, let’s take that moment that tonight is granting.

always there is a sort of dream of air between you and the hills of California, a veil of unreality in the intervening air. It gives the hills the bloom that peaches have, or grapes in the dew.

A smile is ever the most bright and beautiful with a tear upon it. What is the dawn without the dew? The tear is rendered by the smile precious above the smile itself.

Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.

This is how to contemplate our conditioned existence in this fleeting world:
Like a tiny drop of dew, or a bubble floating in a stream;
Like a flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
Or a flickering lamp, an illusion, a phantom, or a dream.
So is all conditioned existence to be seen.

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

All quiet along the Potomac tonight, no sound save the rush of the river, while soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, the picket’s off duty forever.

And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.

I will tell you where there is power: where the dew lies upon the hills, and the rain has moistened the roots of the various plant; where the sunshine pours steadily; where the brook runs babbling along, there is a beneficent power.

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.

One naked star has waded through
The purple shallows of the night,
And faltering as falls the dew
It drips its misty light.

The white man has settled like a locust over Africa, and, like the locusts in early morning, cannot take flight for the heaviness of the dew on their wings. But the dew that weights the white man is the money that he makes from our labor.

The prolific Chinodya has written a number of striking books, most notably ‘Dew in the Morning’, an exploration of an idyllic rural boyhood; the sophisticated ‘Strife,’ in which sins from the pre-colonial past cast shadows into the present; and the rich and varied short-story collection ‘Can We Talk?’

My first commercial ever was a Dr. Pepper commercial. And then I did a Mountain Dew commercial. A lot of soft drinks.

Pippa’s Song The year’s at the spring The day’s at the morn Morning’s at seven, The Hill side’s dew-pearled The lark’s on the wing The snail’s on the thorn God’s in his heaven- All’s right with the world

The timely dew of sleep Now falling with soft slumb’rous weight inclines Our eyelids.

Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it; the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.

Its liquor is like the sweetest dew from Heaven.

It must descend, as the dew, upon the tender herb, or like melting flakes of snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind.

Modesty and dew love the shade.

The garden rose may richly bloom In cultured soil and genial air, To cloud the light of Fashion’s room Or droop in Beauty’s midnight hair, In lonelier grace, to sun and dew The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue, Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!

Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward; Rains fall, suns rise and set; Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.

If it’s a drop of dew, it will dissolve.

I who all the Winter through,
Cherished other loves than you
And kept hands with hoary policy in marriage-bed and pew;
Now I know the false and true,
For the earnest sun looks through,
And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew.

Tier on tier of beautiful mountains and streams Blue green vistas locked in white clouds The mist makes my bandana wet Dew coats my grass cape My feet climb in straw sandals My hand holds an old wooden stick When I gaze down again on the dusty world It has become a land of phantoms and dreams to me

Do things for others and you’ll find your self-consciousness evaporating like morning dew.

Joy to hearts which have suffered long is like the dew on the ground after a long drought; both the heart and the ground absorb that beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is outwardly apparant.

You are an ocean in a drop of dew, all the universes in a thin sack of blood. What are these pleasures then, these joys, these worlds that you keep reaching for, hoping they will make you more alive?

A sensitive plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan
like leaves to the light,
and closed them beneath the kisses of night.

A ship’s engine far away on the water expands the summer-night horizon. Both joy and sorrow swell in the dew’s magnifying glass. Without really knowing, we divine; our life has a sister ship, following quietly another route. While the sun blazes behind the islands.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

The ocean can be yours; why should you stop
Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew?
The secrets of the sun are yours, but you
Content yourself with motes trapped in beams.

YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,’ said the dewdrop to the lake.

A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew.

As he drank, little brown drops of coffee clung to his mustache like dew. Men will live like billy goats if they are let alone.

The morning paper is just as necessary for an American as dew is to the grass.

The tulip’s petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.

And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday!

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

The spring is fresh and fearless
And every leaf is new,
The world is brimmed with moonlight,
The lilac brimmed with dew.
Here in the moving shadows
I catch my breath and sing –
My heart is fresh and fearless
And over-brimmed with spring.

On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew…so dear, So fresh, so fleeting

Beautiful and minimalist, the traditional Japanese art of ikebana – arranging bouquets of cut flowers and leaves using very few elements – ideally corresponded to a form of expression I could transpose in a perfume. The smell of a rose early in the morning, damp, sprinkled with dew, delicate and light.

I am not prone to weeping as our sex commonly are; the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities;
but I have that honorable grief lodged here which burns worse than tears drown.

The breeze and the dew make tranquil the clear dawn;
Behind the curtain there is one who alone is up betimes.
The orioles sing and the flowers smile –
Whose then, after all, is the Spring?

The tender violet bent in smiles To elves that sported nigh, Tossing the drops of fragrant dew To scent the evening sky.

I see the rainbow in the sky, the dew upon the grass; I see them, and I ask not why they glimmer or they pass. With folded arms I linger not to call them back; ’twere vain: In this, or in some other spot, I know they’ll shine again.

Where weary folk toil, black with smoke, And hear but whistles scream, I went, all fresh from dawn and dew To carry them a dream. I went to bitter lanes and dark, Who once had known the sky, To carry them a dream-and found They had more dreams than I.

Sometimes in June, when I see unearned dividends of dew hung on every lupine, I have doubts about the real poverty of the sands. On solvent farmlands lupines do not even grow, much less collect a daily rainbow of jewels.

Jolt is for Windows programmers. It’s typical IBM PC: it goes in brown and comes out yellow. Mountain Dew is for Macintosh programmers: it goes in yellow and comes out yellow. It’s WYSIWYP.

The dew-bead Gem of earth and sky begotten.

Nothing can beat the smell of dew and flowers and the odor that comes out of the earth when the sun goes down.

Don’t bring the ocean if I feel thirsty, nor heaven if I ask for a light; but bring a hint, some dew, a particle, as birds carry only drops away from water, and the wind a grain of salt.

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth,
Contagious blastments are are most imminent.

A bird in the boughs sang “June,”
And “June” hummed a bee
In a Bacchic glee
As he tumbled over and over
Drunk with the honey-dew.

Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.

Poems On Time The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. Time is a wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth. Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.

There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover; there’s no rain left in heaven.

Art at its most significant is a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.

Greek is the morning land of languages, and has the freshness of early dew in it which will never exhale.

In order to grow in grace, we must be much alone. It is not in society that the soul grows most vigorously. In one single quiet hour of prayer it will often make more progress than in days of company with others. It is in the desert that the dew falls freshest and the air its purest.

The dews of the evening most carefully shun; Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.

This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.

You don’t know why, but you know you have to go home. It’s an eternal longing. It’s Marvell’s drop of dew wanting to go back to the sky. We’re drawn by a force we don’t understand, through worlds, through experience.

[A] truly humble spirit humbles itself as much amid honors as amid insults, acting like the honeybee which makes its honey equally as well from the dew that falls on the wormwood as from that which falls on the rose.

What is the scent of water?” “Renewal. The goodness of God coming down like dew.

This life of separateness may be compared to a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, a drop of dew, a flash of lightning.

These are the four that are never content: that have never been filled since the dew began- Jacala’s mouth, and the glut of the kite, and the hands of the ape, and the eyes of Man.

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .

Of all the portions of life it is in the two twilights, childhood and age, that tears fall with the most frequency; like the dew at dawn and eve.

Heat lingers
As days are still long;
Early mornings are cool
While autumn is still young.
Dew on the lotus
Scatters pure perfume;
Wind on the bamboos
Gives off a gentle tinkling.
I am idle and lonely,
Lying down all day,
Sick and decayed;
No one asks for me;
Thin dusk before my gates,
Cassia blossoms inch deep.

The dew, ‘Tis of the tears which stars weep, sweet with joy.

Love has seven names, / Which, as you know, are appropriate to her; / Chain, light, live coal, and fire – / … dew, living spring, and hell.

The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.

In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

Perhaps this was how the sparrows did it too; perhaps they were looking so hard at the peaks and tips of the new rooftops coated with dew, and the vast new horizon, that they only forgot that they did not know how to fly until they were already in midair.

Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

The world globes itself in a drop of dew.

On certain mornings, as we turn a corner,
an exquisite dew falls on our heart
and then vanishes.
But the freshness lingers, and this, always,
is what the heart needs.
The earth must have risen in just such a light
the morning the world was born.

Your body is like a dew-drop on the morning grass, your life is as brief as a flash of lightning. Momentary and vain, it is lost in a moment.

I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses, and the voice I hear falling on my ear the son of God discloses. And he walks with me, and he talks with me. And he tells me I am his own, and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.

We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty.

How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!

White dew- one drop on each thorn

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Runes, runes, runes… Runes. An inverted Algiz rune. The caption next to it said “Chernobog.” The Black God. Right. Of course, it wouldn’t be Chernobog, God of Morning Dew on the Rose Petals, but a woman could always hope.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois’nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

Pepsi has a new Doritos-flavored Mountain Dew. No, we don’t have an Ebola vaccine, but we do have the Doritos-flavored Mountain Dew.

Oh fair, oh sweet and holy as dew at morning tide,
I gaze on thee, and yearnings, sad in my bosom hide.

Life is fragile, like the dew hanging delicately on the grass, crystal drops that will be carried away on the first morning breeze.

And I’ll dance with you in Vienna, I’ll be wearing a river’s disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I’ll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.

The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects.

Remorse is as the heart in which it grows; If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy, It is the poison tree, that pierced to the inmost, Weeps only tears of poison.

Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.

I watched a rose-bud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then when I thought it should be strong
It opened at the matin hour
And fell at even-song.

I’m excited to join the Mountain Dew snowboarding team.

Everything in our world, even a drop of dew, is a microcosm of the universe.

Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spiderwebs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew, and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each.

The universe is represented in every one of it’s particles. Everything is made of one hidden stuff. The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The true doctrine of omnipresence is that God appears with all His parts in every moss and cobweb.

O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!
O for a vale that at midday the dew cumbers!
O for a pleasure trip up to the pole!

My after forty face felt far more comfortable than anything I lived with previously. Self-confidence was a powerful beauty-potion; I looked better because I felt better. Failure and grief as well as success and love had served me well. Finally, I was tapping into that most hard-won of your dews: wisdom.

Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her; the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure.

If princes and kings could follow it (Tao), all things would by themselves abide, Heaven and Earth would unite and sweet dew would fall. People would by themselves find harmony, without being commanded.

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The great artificer made my mate.

Twilight’s soft dews steal o’er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day.

In every seed to breathe a flower, In every drop of dew To reverence a cloister star Within the distant blue; To wait the promise of the how, Despite the cloud between, Is Faith-the fervid evidence Of loneliness unseen.

A grub in filth is dirty, but it changes into a cicada and sips dew in the autumn breeze. Rotting plants have no luster, but they turn into foxfire and glow in the summer moonlight. So we know that purity emerges from impurity, and light is born from darkness.

Even the facts of science may dust the mind by their dryness, unless they are … rendered fertile by the dews of fresh and living truth. Knowledge does not come to us by details, but in flashes of light from heaven.

In every one of these haunting and hungry poems, Howell draws a map for how to enter the heat and dew of the human being, naked and facing the natural world, desperate to feel. I did not realize while reading Render how deeply I was handing everything over.

And my heart springs up anew,
Bright and confident and true,
And the old love comes to meet me, in the dawning and the dew.

Forgive me if, in friendship’s way, I offer thee a wreath of May…. [N]ourished by the dews of heaven…. So I have Ivy placed between, To prove that worth is ever green. The little blue Forget-me-not… Spring’s messenger in every spot, Smiling on all—”Remember me!

But the impressions which the morning makes vanish with its dews, and not even the most “persevering mortal” can preserve the memory of its freshness to midday.

Amazingly, we’ve become a culture that considers Twinkies, Cocoa Puffs, and Mountain Dew safe, but raw milk and compost-grown tomatoes unsafe.

Dew depends not on Parliament.

In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Ah! how little knowledge does a man acquire in his life. He gathers it up like water, but like water it runs between his fingers, and yet, if his hands be but wet as though with dew, behold a generation of fools call out, ‘See, he is a wise man!’ Is it not so?

Observe this dew-drenched rose of Tyrian gardens A rose today. But you will ask in vain Tomorrow what it is; and yesterday It was the dust, the sunshine, and the rains.

Come quickly — as soon as these blossoms open, they fall. This world exists as a sheen of dew on flowers.

Corruption is a tree, whose branches are Of an immeasurable length: they spread Ev’rywhere; and the dew that drops from thence Hath infected some chairs and stools of authority.

Vic bears you no ill will. He is outside drinking the Dew of the Mountain and will be glad to see you yourself again” Ranulf said to Lucas.

I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning system that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.

The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light.

Like a glowworm golden, in a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden its aerial blue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.

Glad that I live am I;
That the sky is blue;
Glad for the country lanes,
And the fall of dew.

The morning drips her dew for me, Noon spreads an opal canopy. Home-bound, the drifting cloud-crafts rest Where sunset ambers all the west…

I didn’t want to see them lower him into the ground in the spot he’d picked out with his dad, and I didn’t want to see his parents sink to their knees in the dew-wet grass and moan in pain.

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,
And the brown bee drones in the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o’clock,
And summer is near its close,
It’s, Oh!, For the gate, and the locust lane;
And dusk, and dew, and home again!

Stories help me. To live. To work. To find the meaning hidden in every dream, ever leaf, every drop of dew.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb’d in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past, and man forgot.

God bless them pretty women, I wish they was mine, Their breath is as sweet, The dew on the vine.

A strip of water’s spread in the setting sun, Half the river’s emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl; the moon like a bow.

Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown; Except for winds, provincial; Except by butterflies, Unnoticed as a single dew That on the acre lies

But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse; Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.

All beauty of this world is wet with the dew of tears.

A falcon hovers at the edge of the sky.Two gulls drift slowly up the river.Vulnerable while they ride the wind,they coast and glide with ease.Dew is heavy on the grass below,the spider’s web is ready.Heaven’s ways include the human:among a thousand sorrows, I stand alone.