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 incloses: 
   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, 
But 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 unsecure, 
       Trembling lest it grow impure, 
   Till the warm sun pity its pain,   
And to the skies exhale it back again. 
   So the soul, that drop, that ray   
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,   
Could it within the human flower be seen, 
   Rememb’ring still its former height, 
   Shuns the swart 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, 
   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 upwards bend. 
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distill,   
White and entire, though congealèd and chill,   
Congealed on earth: but does, dissolving, run   
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.