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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.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto XXXIII

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