XXXII. WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. Come like a giant from a haven broad; When will she turn, and whither? She will brook XXXIII. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, XXXIV. A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; XXXV. 'WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower XXXVI. How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,— Such place to me is sometimes like a dream |