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.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.