The Dewdrop

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

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

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From our Exchanges
November 7, 1903
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