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, 15

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, 20