Saturday

too much.

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'd 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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welly welly well away