If any alien foot profane the path.
So too the buck that trimmed my terraces,
Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode
And his late kingdom, only from the road.


XXXVII


My body which my dungeon is,
And yet my parks and palaces:-
Which is so great that there I go
All the day long to and fro,
And when the night begins to fall
Throw down my bed and sleep, while all
The building hums with wakefulness -
Even as a child of savages
When evening takes her on her way,
(She having roamed a summer's day
Along the mountain-sides and scalp)
Sleeps in an antre of that alp:-
Which is so broad and high that there,
As in the topless fields of air,
My fancy soars like to a kite

And faints in the blue infinite:-
Which is so strong, my strongest throes
And the rough world's besieging blows
Not break it, and so weak withal,