Dewy

"And now already from the heaven's high steep / the dewy night wheels down, and sinking slow, / the stars are gently wooing us to sleep. / But, if thy longing be so great to know / the tale of Troy's last agony and woe, / the toils we suffered, though my heart doth ache, / and grief would fain the memory forego / of scenes so sad, yet, Lady, for thy sake / I will begin," and thus the sire of Troy outspake:

Thrice roar the caverned shore-cliffs, thrice the spray / whirls up and wets the dewy stars on high.

His mildly vivid dewy beam Of beryl to diffuse: the gleam With elf-light tiniest figures lit Of shapely moon-fair elves who sit Each on a gemmy blade's curled tip In circle.

The dewy grass was too slick for football.

In the dewy fog, it was cold and damp.

At midnight, in the month of June, / I stand beneath the mystic moon. / An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, / Exhales from out her golden rim

1814, 16 March, Percy Bysshe Shelley letter to Hogg, Thy Gentle Face Thy dewy looks sink in my breast Thy gentle words stir poison there;

It was unusually early for him; his whole person exhaled the charm of almost dewy freshness; […]

Simplicity in life, simplicity in art, and a dewy freshness over all.