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-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 wreathèd horn.
Sonnet / 1802
Composed here:
Dove Cottage (Town End, Grasmere) – home of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, 1799–1808
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Gerard Van der Leun
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Poetry is a construct of the white male patriarchy and a shirking of duties to the glorious unity collective.
Nothing outside our benevolent savior the party and nothing against our man made messiah the immaculate state, umm umm yes we can, peace means the absence of opposition to socialism or you’re with the kulak untermenschen deplorables on the boxcars.