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XXXV.
O WRETCHED man, that, for a little mile,
Crawls beneath heaven for his brother's blood,
Whose days the planets number with their style,
To whom all earth is slave, all living, food;
O withering man, within whose folded shell,
Lies yet the seed, the spirit's quickening corn,
That Time and Sun will change out of the cell
Into green meadows, in the world unborn;
If Beauty be a dream, do but resolve
And fire shall come, that in the stubborn clay
Works to make perfect till the rocks dissolve,
The barriers burst and beauty takes her way,
Beauty herself, within whose blossoming Spring
Even wretched man shall clap his hands and sing.
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