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 every thing, 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.
YOU should have heard him speak of what he loved; of the tent pitched beside the talking water; of the stars overhead at night; of the blest return of morning, the peep of day over the moors, the awakening birds among the birches; how he abhorred the long winter shut in cities; and with what delight, at the return of Spring, he once more pitched his camp in the living out of doors.
Robert Louis Stevenson
LIFE is sweet, brother . . . . There’s day and night, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, all sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the heath.
George H. Borrow