Dew upon the robin as he lilts there, on the thorn,
Jewel on a scarlet breast a fleeting moment worn,
And suddenly by fairy hands into blue heaven drawn.

Slave that dares to seek a couch in Cleopatra's bower,
Curtained by the crimson leaves of yonder royal flower,
Until the spearmen of the sun shall end the blissful hour.

Dew upon the blackwood boughs by morning Zephyr stirred,
Shaken to the fronded fern by restless diamond bird;
Night's opals on a spendthrift morn, with gracious stealth conferred.

Cast upon the Autumn leaves wind sundered from their home,
Crimson, amber, scarlet, grey, amethystine, chrome,
A mother's tears o'er children fair that perish in the loam.

Dew that lies by mountain stream the oreoicas know,
Flung from fragile blue-bell cups, when vernal breezes blow,
And carillons and odours wed and fill the vale below.

Gems that crust a million mounds where pauper children lie,
Where the wind goes murmuring a ceaseless hush-a-bye,
Yet all the while the children sing like skylarks in the sky.

Dew that fills the starry eyes at closing of the day,
Gleaming by a carmine cloud that slowly fades away,
Immortal sadness of a god to mortal love a prey.

Dew that falls from Her sad eyes, to cool with healing rain,
The hearts that are so lonely here, that lonely must remain,
Till all the Seraphin are stirred, to dream of earth again.