The World Is To Much With Us; Late And Soon
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 wreathed horn.
Next 10 Poems
- William Wordsworth : The World Is Too Much With Us
- William Wordsworth : There Is An Eminence,--of These Our Hills
- William Wordsworth : There Was A Boy
- William Wordsworth : Thorn, The
- William Wordsworth : Three Years She Grew
- William Wordsworth : Three Years She Grew In Sun And Shower,
- William Wordsworth : Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love
- William Wordsworth : To A Butterfly
- William Wordsworth : To A Butterfly ( First Poem )
- William Wordsworth : To A Butterfly ( Second Poem )
Previous 10 Poems
- William Wordsworth : The Virgin
- William Wordsworth : The Trosachs
- William Wordsworth : The Tables Turned
- William Wordsworth : The Sonnet Ii
- William Wordsworth : The Sonnet I
- William Wordsworth : The Solitary Reaper
- William Wordsworth : The Simplon Pass
- William Wordsworth : The Reverie Of Poor Susan
- William Wordsworth : The Rainbow
- William Wordsworth : The Primrose Of The Rock
