Her soul trembled on her lips like a drop of dew on a flower.

We all have moments with the dust, but the dew is given.

Without any wind blowing, the sheer weight of a raindrop, shining in parasitic luxury on a cordate leaf, caused its tip to dip, and what looked like a globule of quicksilver performed a sudden glissando down the centre vein, and then, having shed its bright load, the relieved leaf unbent. Tip, leaf, dip, relief - the instant it all took to happen seemed to me not so much a fraction of time as a fissure in it, a missed heartbeat, which was refunded at once by a patter of rhymes: I say 'patter' intentionally, for when a gust of wind did come, the trees would briskly start to drip all together in as crude an imitation of the recent downpour as the stanza I was already muttering resembled the shock of wonder I had experienced when for a moment heart and leaf had been one.

The difference between you and her
(whom I to you did once prefer)
Is clear enough to settle:
She like a diamond shone, but you
Shine like an early drop of dew
Poised on a red rose petal.

The dew-drop carries in its eye
Mountain and forest, sea and sky,
With every change of weather;
Contrariwise, a diamond splits
The prospect into idle bits
That none can piece together.

Is not a dew-drop on a blade of grass more beautiful than a pearl set in gold? Is not a living spring, which gushes up before us, we know not whence, more beautiful than all the fountains of Versailles?

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.

Are tears the dewdrops of the heart?

She has lived and loved! There is no folded petal, no latent dewdrop, in this perfectly developed rose!

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again

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

You have seen flowers at morning <i>satisfied</i> with the dew, and those same sweet flowers at noon with their heads bowed in anguish before the mighty sun; think you these thirsty blossoms will <i>now</i> need nought but — <i>dew</i>? No, they will cry for sunlight, and pine for the burning noon, tho’ it scorches them, scathes them...

…you must be always as a drop of dew hidden in the heart of this beautiful Lily of the valley
...
One must be so little to draw near to Jesus, and few are the souls that aspire to be little and unknown.
...
Our Beloved needs neither our brilliant deeds nor our beautiful thoughts.
...
The Lily of the valley asks but a single dewdrop, which for one night shall rest in its cup, hidden from all human eyes.

Christians are like the several flowers in a garden that have each of them the dew of heaven, which, being shaken with the wind, they let fall at each other's roots, whereby they are jointly nourished, and become nourishers of each other.

Do Stones Feel?

Do stones feel?
Do they love their life?
Or does their patience drown out everything else?

When I walk on the beach I gather a few
white ones, dark ones, the multiple colors.
Don’t worry, I say, I’ll bring you back, and I do.

Is the tree as it rises delighted with its many
branches,
each one like a poem?

Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain?

Most of the world says no, no, it’s not possible.

I refuse to think to such a conclusion.
Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.