"The world is too much with us." But which world?
The tiny, tidy suburb of our senses,
Where mysteries are carefully kept furled
Lest some strange guess should tug at our defences.
The tiny, tidy suburb of our senses,
Where mysteries are carefully kept furled
Lest 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.
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 moon
Why should he listen to such idle prattle?
He's the all-seeing monarch of the noon
And tales of darkness, envy's tittle-tattle.
Why should he listen to such idle prattle?
He's the all-seeing monarch of the noon
And tales of darkness, envy's tittle-tattle.
Oh, my dear God, Thou who art unconfined
By 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.
By 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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