Mint is but a dewy leaf,
a scent of brook that flew,
when the waters dashed the fringes
and had the green ice dewed.
Mint is but a dewy leaf
like a tinge of honey dew,
in the mellow night that fell
mild in daylight strewn.
In the bitter sad,
tempest and rue,
My mint is but a dewy leaf
like the Earth has hissed a hue
in the breath of glacial sigh,
like a soul renewed.