Italy is in that habit.
[7] There is a fine picture of the passing of a hurricane in _Paracelsus_ (p.

67, vol i.) which illustrates this inability to stop when he has done all he needs.

Paracelsus speaks: The hurricane is spent, And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; But is it earth or sea that heaves below?
The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; And now, some islet, loosened from the land, Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean: _And now the air is full of uptorn canes._ _Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks_ _Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,_ _All high in the wind_.

Even so my varied life Drifts by me.
I think that the lines I have italicised should have been left out.

They weaken what he has well done.
* * * * *.