The World Is Too Much With Us
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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.
I sit on the steps of my own sacredness,
Hands lifted, open in prayer,
Eyes focused, inward.
The new moon bounces light
On an inner
Just that enough
to turn the phases of the moon
to deeper tune the tides
I breathe for those I love,
Offer alveoli like canoes
Row for all I touch.