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The World is Too
Much With Us;
late and soon
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
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!
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 forlorn;
Have sight
of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old
Triton blow his wreathed horn.
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