Sonnet CCXXII:
Saint Paul has said this mortal shall arise
Freed from its grossness, palpable in form,
Vital, organic, pulsing with a warm
Ethereal life—no phantom of teh skies.
O dear belief! for then these quenchless eyes—
Though wrecked myself amidst a fiery storm—
Upon some headland where the purest swarm,
May mark thee glimmering over Paradise.
For little change thy faultless shape will need,
To fit thy beauty to its heavenly lot,
And wake a marvel in that sacred spot.
But little change—or none, if ’tis decreed
That God would have his glories unforgot
And keep a type of every perfect seed.
