WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
549 The World
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-gather j d now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune, It moves us not. Great God' Pd 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.
��550 Ode
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem ApparelPd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore, Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
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