And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is Poesy, according as the Mind glows;
A paper kite which flies 'twixt Life and Death,
A shadow which the onward Soul behind throws:
And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.
IX.
The World is all before me[707]—or behind;
For I have seen a portion of that same,
And quite enough for me to keep in mind;—