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! The 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.

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

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.