The World Is Too Much With Us
The World Is Too Much With Us
by William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Geting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sorid boon!
The Sea that bares 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 everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, -
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forelorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
by William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Geting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sorid boon!
The Sea that bares 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 everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, -
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forelorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.