How it the purple flow'r 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 grows impure;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.