The world is too much with us
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers --
Little we see in Nature 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 wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth
(1770-1850)
And if you're tired of it all, the whole damn mess, I'll take you back to my regular programming. You can even lick the frosting from the bowl -- or my fingers. Take your pick.
First there was this:
Then there was this:
And then, this:
And after, this:
Oh, and finally this:
If you're an old doddering fool, there's this:
