Tennyson.

Pleasantly comest thou,

Dew of the evening, to the crisp’d up grass;

And the curl’d corn-blades bow,

And the light breezes pass,

That their parch’d lips may feel thee, and expand,

Thou sweet reviver of the fever’d land.

So, to the thirsting soul,

Cometh the dew of the Almighty’s love;