The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.

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.

Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.