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.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.