100 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS 



Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 



Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 

 Till the warm sun pities its pain, 

 And to the skies exhales 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 a 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, although congealed and chill,- 

 Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run 

 Into the glories of the Almighty sun. 



ANDREW MARVELL. 



