The Dewdrop

What is that chaste, that sparkling thing,
Which to the rose at dawn doth cling,
And nestled near its throbbing breast
Plays ardent lover while a guest?

'Tis but a tear of weeping night—
The weeping of a glad delight—
Till startled by obtruding day
Night, fearing capture, steals away.

JOHN W. FLAGG.


They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts.—SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

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November 7, 1903
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