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12 Whose beings, spotless as new-fallen snow, Know nothing of the Wicked World below. These gentle sons and daughters of the air, Safe, in their eyrie, from temptation's snare. Have yet one little fault I must confess— An overweening sense of righteousness. As perfect silence, undisturbed for years, Will breed at length a humming in the ears, So from their very purity within Arise the promptings of their only sin. Forgive them! No? Perhaps you will relent When you appreciate their punishment!

But prithee be not led too far away, By the hack author of a mere stage-play: It's easy to affect this cynic tone, But, let me ask you, had the world ne'er known Such Love as you, and I, and he, must mean— Pray where would you, or I, or he, have been?