HE world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bears her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not, 
Wordsworth. 
J3 [ND WEED (small) -JIuMILITY, 
‘SfN all fair hues from white to mingled rose, 
© Along the hedge the clasping bindweed flowers • 
And when one chalice shuts, a new one blows; 
There’s blooming for all minutes of the hours. 
Along the hedge beside the trodden lane, 
Where day by day we pass, and pass again: 
Rosy and white along the busy mile, 
A flower for every step, and all the while. 
Augusta Webster. 
pLIANTHUS—WORLDLINESS. 
24, 
