The Wet Grass of Morning

In the spring when I bathe my feet in the wet grass of morning,
I see many smiles upon the meadows. . . .

There are drops of shining dew clinging to the blue harebells,
And the little white starflowers sparkle with dew, shining. . . .

Old Woman Spider has beaded many beautiful patterns,
Spreading them where the Sun's ray fails. . . .

He also is smiling as he catches the red of the blackbird's opening wing,
As he hearkens to the mocking-bird inventing new songs. . . .

I was an old man as I sat by the evening fire;
When I bathe my feet in the wet grass of morning I am young again.