The World Is Too Much With Us
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
•••
This sonnet feels like a powerful lament against the disconnection of modern life. Wordsworth's words still ring true today—we've traded deep connection with nature for material pursuits, and in doing so, we've dulled our capacity for wonder. His longing for the old myths—Proteus, Triton—is a yearning for a world where nature was alive with meaning. It’s a reminder to slow down, look up, and remember that the sacred still speaks through wind and sea, if only we listen.
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