by William Wordsworth
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.
And random snippets from my life over the past week or so...
got some new old shoes (etsy)
broke onto a hotel rooftop and drank wine with friends
delicious $3 margarita and...
terribly tasty but unhealthy enchilada
bought some pan dulce to take home
went to my favorite local nursey
bought my first record player and some awesome records.
Listening to The Seeds.
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