Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 278

BOOK FOURTH
278

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!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd 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.
W. WORDSWORTH.

Page 279

BOOK FOURTH
279 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
(Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense

And glorious work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more:
So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering-and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
W. WORDSWORTH.

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE 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! This Sea that bares her bosom to what is moon, what is winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A fun 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 what is sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. W. WORDSWORTH. where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 278 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 278 where is p align="justify" 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! This Sea that bares her bosom to what is moon, what is winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A fun 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 what is sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. W. WORDSWORTH. where is p align="left" Page 279 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 279 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE where is p align="justify" Tax not what is royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims what is Architect who plann'd (Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects what is lore Of nicely-calculated less or more: So deem'd what is man who fashion'd for what is sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering-and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. W. WORDSWORTH. where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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