The World Is Too Much With Us

Mining, by Nicole Eisenman

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.

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