John Clare’s prose poem follows a walk through a dew-soaked morning. The speaker bends low, almost childlike, convinced that the droplets on grass are silver pearls, on primrose beds are gold beads, and on leaves they glow emerald. He tries to touch them, but they melt from his finger — a moment of gentle disillusion that only deepens the wonder. The whole landscape seems hung with trembling ornaments, every thorn and bramble carrying its own shining jewel. Then a brisker wind shakes it all away, and the vision collapses into a common spring morning of primroses, violets, and unremarkable leaves. The feeling is one of rapt attention and quiet delight, with no lament when the illusion passes. There is simply a tender noticing of how light and water can briefly transform the ordinary into something precious, a magic that lingers in the memory even as the dew dries.
Dewdrops — Summary
The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and commonplace objects.