The dew-wet dawn is radiant, fresh, and still,
The sleepy sun has barely topped the hill;
Light , crisp, and bracing hints of piney breeze.
Waft gently from the cones of needled trees.
A blush of pink is restful to the eye;
Between grey trunks, the redbud blossoms fly,
As if afloat like gossamer in flight.
Here, there, with dogwood punctuated white.
The forest floor below, sweet, needle strewn,
Rests in a leafy shade of afternoon.
Bright shafts of sun, like golden arrows too,
The light of tiny blossoms, rich and new.
Small worlds of wonder live as time goes by.
So miniature, they escape the casual eye.
Through many halls the echoing songs of birds,
Sweet, liquid notes of joy, may all be heard.
A place so calm, so natural and fair,
That one may rest his soul while lingering there.