The only inexhaustible supply of anything on Earth, it seems to me, is my ignorance. Just as I was about to dismiss William Wordsworth as irrelevant and a curiosity who before long would be relegated to obscurity, I was reminded of, and now in all academic honesty must rep, the sonnet which is the title of this post.
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.