Know you a soul so white and inly pure
That sin itself, committed by her hand,
Permitted by her brain, done by command
Of every lust, could not her loss assure?
Know you a soul whose nature could endure
That earthy stain, yet as yon cygnet stand--
Now fluttering from the muddy pool to land--
Self-cleansed, a snowy star above the mure?
With souls thus pure, the parents of our race
Might have transgressed before their witless fall,
Not knowing sin as sin, nor grace as grace.
Search for this soul that sin cannot enthrall;
Vain quest! then turn, and see her radiant face,
Here, in my Love, if she can sin at all.