The 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 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 forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Liked or faved by...
Other works by William Wordsworth...
Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors
High in the breathless Hall the M… And Emont’s murmur mingled with t… The words of ancient time I thus… A festal strain that hath been sil… “From town to town, from tower to…
I. Suggested by a Beautiful Ruin Upon One of the Islands of Loch Lomond, a Place Chosen for the Retreat of a Solitary Individual, From Whom This Habitation Acquired the Name of the Brownie'S Cell
To barren heath, bleak moor, and q… Or depth of labyrinthine glen; Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage me… World—wearied Men withdrew of yor…
