Canto XXXIII

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.