LXI.
             
        If, in thy second state sublime,
            Thy ransom’d reason change replies
            With all the circle of the wise,
        The perfect flower of human time;

        And if thou cast thine eyes below,
            How dimly character’d and slight,
            How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night,
        How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

        Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
            Where thy first form was made a man:
            I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
        The soul of Shakespeare love thee more.