Poetry Archives

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 countest 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.