O thou that after toil and storm
      Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air,
      Whose faith has centre everywhere,
Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister when she prays,
      Her early Heaven, her happy views;
      Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine,
      Her hands are quicker unto good:
      Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood
To which she links a truth divine!

See thou, that countess reason ripe
      In holding by the law within,
      Thou fail not in a world of sin,
And ev'n for want of such a type.


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Last modified 21 February 2010