You are the softness of the morning dew!
The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, 'Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.
The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs.
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
The dew of compassion is a tear.
