Quotes About Dew

Curiosity is the far nobler sister of novelty. Curiosity invokes study. By definition, it is "interest leading to inquiry."[1] It does not look for diamonds on blades of grass; it looks for dew. If it's looking for diamonds, it mines. Curiosity isn't satisfied to climb a hill and then move on. To borrow words from Deuteronomy, it digs copper from them (Deuteronomy 8:9).

The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light.

But it does feed a strange longing to touch a dew-dampened lawn, or feel a cool mist on one's face, or even to remember the joy of a perfect day after a week of rain.

Christians, saints of God, pray that the dew of heaven may fall on earth's dry thirsty ground, and that righteousness may cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.

Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike Indiana's early morning dew High up in the hills of California Home is just another word for you

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star --from Death & Co.

The child's cry Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.

Around the overturned enamel tray, a star of thermometer shards glittered, and balls of mercury trembled like celestial dew.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

One of our oracles tells us, 'Rain falls, dew rises. Between is mist. Between is all that is.' Let that be your answer, manchild. Do not brood too much over what went before or worry too much over what is to come. Between those two is everything that matters—all that is.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty.

And my heart springs up anew, Bright and confident and true, And the old love comes to meet me, in the dawning and the dew.

Full with frets I die, but not slain by you. My chest drains itself, painlessly. Is all this not blood? Oh, Lord—it's dew! The dawn, weeping, washes over me.

The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit and fire and dew.

The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb grey hairs

Bright morning comes; the bloody-fingered dawn with zealous light sets seas of air ablaze and bends to earth another false beginning. My eyes open like cornflowers, stick, crusted with their own stale dew, then take that light.

Runes, runes, runes... Runes. An inverted Algiz rune. The caption next to it said "Chernobog." The Black God. Right. Of course, it wouldn't be Chernobog, God of Morning Dew on the Rose Petals, but a woman could always hope.

We made love outdoorsWithout a roof, I like most, Without stove, to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and gushing of dew.

At a guess I see that you may indeed be he: the light silver dew brings to clothe in loveliness a twilight beauty flower.

On we climb, keeping time To hidden goat-bells' nibbling chime, Feet in the dew of ferns we climb, Souls in a sort of winding rhyme, Up the path that turns and turns Toward the top where morning burns.

Your body is a hyacinth, Into which a monk dips his waxy fingers. Our silence is a black cavern, From which a soft animal steps at times And slowly lowers heavy eyelids. On your temples black dew drips, The last gold of expired stars

Home can be the Pennsylvania TurnpikeIndiana's early morning dewHigh up in the hills of CaliforniaHome is just another word for you

A trait si-a iubit si asta face si acum! In trandafirul asta de-o frumusete perfecta nu mai e nici o petala nedeschisa, nici o picatura de roua pe care n-au vazut-o razele soarelui.