The spider a shimmering gossamer weaves
In the lap of the meadow, and lightly is thrown
Its faint web of gold o’er the green of the leaves,
While buds of ambrosia around us are blown.
There’s a gem in each drop of the dew on the grass,
The earth is awakened with carolings sweet;
The daisies are flashing in stars where we pass,
And the buttercups hide in the moss at our feet.
The cowslips are changing from green into gold,
On banks where the frosts of the winter have died;