  The dewdrop carries in its eye Snowdon and Hebog, sea and sky, Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors, And half a county’s out-of-doors: Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shield In this remote and rocky field. But why should man in God’s Name stress The dewdrop’s inconspicuousness When to lakes, woods, the estuary, Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea, This dewdrop falling from its leaf Can spread amazement near to grief, As it were a world distinct in mould Lost with its beauty ages old? |
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