Weeping themselves away, till they infuse,
Deep into nature’s breast, the spirit of her hues.
Byron.
Within these leaves the holy dew
That falls from heaven, hath won anew
A glory—in declining.
Miss Barrett.
Those verdant hills now bathed in morning dews,
Whose every drop outvies Golconda’s gem.
Lo! one hangs glittering on yon blade of grass: