ON A DROP OF DEW.

(TRANSLATED.)

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,)
Remembering still its 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 ;
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 distil ;
White and entire, though congealed and chill ;
Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the almighty sun.



-Andrew Marvell


I think this is my favorite poem ever.




ETA: Better formatting here.

Why?

Thank you for providing the correct format.

I like the metaphor, and the more I think about the language the better I understand it.

You're welcome.

What is the metaphor? The language you're thinking about is one of the soul.

Drop of dew to soul. It describes the soul. I like things that describe life truthfully.

A thousand years have I waited
to be borne of darkness by the
quivering morn within the petal
of your stem

only to rise again

Noted.

I know you probably realize this. But, just to clarify for those that may not understand certain types of poetry, the "you" in this sense is not literal.

We are like dew birthed to evaporate.

(I don't think I understand the poem so wrote "noted" so you would know I wasn't ignoring it.)
Yes, I got that at least.

Isn't that depressing though? I think of it more that we gravitate up to something infinitely greater than ourselves but that we in our essence reflect.