See how the orient dew

Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses

Yet not knowing its mansion new

From the clear region where it was born

Round in its self encloses

And in its little globe's extent

Frames as can its native element

Because so long divided from the sphere

Restless it rolls and grows impure

Till the warm sun pity its pain

And to the skies exhale it back again.