The Dew

When the dawn unfolds with a silver breath,
And the lilies glisten with a love, not death;
On the meadow’s green with a pure delight,
The tears of joy are the dewdrops bright.

In the still of the morn, when the world is new,
Let me dwell in the beauty till the day is through;
For the heart of the flower sends forth a sigh,
That the whispering winds shall gently pry.

• G L D Mackay