Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.
Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.
All the dewy tender breath
Idly falls when life is done
On the starless brow of death.
Aubade THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings. He takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings Awake, awake the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes, But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake break thro' your veils of lawn Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
Or when we hark't to nightingales that sang
On dewy eves in spring, did they entice
To gentler love than winter's icy fang?
Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.
An English home - gray twilight poured On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep - all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
Alas how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays A face o'er which a thousand shadows go.
How beautiful is night A dewy freshness fills the silent air No mist obscures nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, with breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And glowing into day.
From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
The City is of Night perchance of Death, But certainly of Night for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold gray air.
Actually, Eisenberg wants to be a doctor or lawyer -- trite, sure, but refreshingly absent the love-me rapacity one detects behind Dakota Fanning's dewy, sky-blue eyes. I'm not trying to create anything, ... I just want to do what comes along that I enjoy.
It's beauty a kind of radiance. People who possess a true inner beauty, their eyes are a little brighter, their skin a little more dewy. They vibrate at a different frequency.
And through the dewy meadow's breast, fringed with shade, but touched on one side with the sun-smile, ran the crystal water, curving in its brightness like diverted hope.
I know a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night. And have one with me wandering.
while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not!
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories