If, in thy second state sublime,
      Thy ransom'd reason change replies
      With all the circle of the wise,
The perfect flower of human time;

And if thou cast thine eyes below,
      How dimly character'd and slight,
      How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night,
How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
      Where thy first form was made a man;
      I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.


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Last modified 11 February 2010