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Wordsworth and Emerson

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;
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 wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth                          1806.


          If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
          They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
          Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
          The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
          They recon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
          I am the doubter and the doubt,
I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.
          The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
          But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Ralph Waldo Emerson