O, the world is a terrible, terrible, awful place,
All the things that we have seen, and things we’ve done,
And my mind runs wild with conspiracy and conflict,
Seeking solace, ease and truth, but finding none.
‘The world is too much with us,’ Wordsworth said,
Referring to how man had lost his way,
Forswearing beauty for the more mundane,
Eschewing nature for comfort, ego, power, pay.
I was struck down, when first I read his poem,
The simplicity and complexity of the line,
How the words that formed in his Romantic head
Had somehow already planted roots in mine.
I was struck down, with such a powerful force,
The sentiment, was penned upon my soul.
Just how far then, had we all veered off course?
And how, did he suggest, we gain control?
When ‘the world is too much with us,’ we must try
To regard only what is solid, real and true.
The earth, the trees, the mountains, sea, and sky.
The sound of birds, the scent of morning dew.
Yes, the world is a terrible, terrible, awful place,
When all is said, and everything is done,
Lest we lose amazement for the dawning of the day,
Or appreciation for the setting of the sun.