At break of day, the morning mist, looks all set to stay,
But soon the sun, breaks through the shroud, melting it away,
Leaving myriads of tiny beads, that shine like crystal glass,
Attached to minute spider's webs, on privet hedge and grass.
Those who are late in rising, may never see this sight.
The work of countless tiny spiders, spinning through the night.
Their exhibits, spread out on display, as though by magic, fade away.
The webs dry out, and men perspire, as both sun and heat climb higher
Those who must toil, wish they could be, taking things easy just like me,
Content to laze 'neath shady trees, listening to the honey bees,
As they buzz from flower to flower, and waiting for a summer shower,
To fall, and quench the scorching heat, and lay the dust in busy street.
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