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FROM THE SAME.
TO THE SUPREME BEING.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
Which of its native self can nothing feed:
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
TO THE LADY
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.
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,
WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.
CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The officious touch that makes me droop again.
Sept. 3, 1803.
EARTH has not any thing to shew more fair:
This City now doth like a garment wear
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;