See how the orient Dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn,
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new
For the clear region where 'twas born,
Round-in itself encloses:
And in its little globe's extent
Frames, as it can its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies;10
And gazing back upon the skies
Shines with a mournful light
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and insecure,
Trembling lest it should grow impure;
'Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.
Thus the Soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day!20
Could it within the human flower be seen,
Rememb'ring still it's former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;
And recollecting its own light,
Does in its pure and circling thoughts express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round
Yet receiving-in the day:30
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining there in love!
How loose and easy hence to go,
How girt and ready to ascend,
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upward bend!