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"The world is too much with us." But which world?The tiny, tidy suburb of our senses,Where mysteries are carefully kept furledLest some strange guess should tug at our defences.
And up above the poor sun on his throne,Who cannot know the solace of the night,The smooth, soft dark denied to him alone,Whose condemnation is continual light.
Were I to tell him of a star or moonWhy should he listen to such idle prattle?He's the all-seeing monarch of the noonAnd tales of darkness, envy's tittle-tattle.
Oh, my dear God, Thou who art unconfinedBy all the frontiers Thou hast forced on me,One boon I ask: since Thou hast made me blind,Let me remember that I cannot see.
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