Canto XXXIII
O thou that after toil and stormMayst 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 confuseA 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 bloodTo which she links a truth divine!
See, thou that countest reason ripeIn holding by the law within,Thou fail not in a world of sin,And ev’n for want of such a type.