The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops <br />that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, <br />and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the <br />hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped <br />down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And <br />where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves <br />they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the <br />morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with <br />gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to <br />shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's <br />light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and <br />every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets <br />a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining <br />jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding <br />leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and <br />commonplace objects.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dewdrops-7/
