A Poem, before I head for home and madness.

Written by William Wordsworth (what a good name for a poet hey?)

The World is Too Much With Us; Late and Soon

The world is too much with us; late a 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 teh 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.




Too funny, it's hard to believe that this was written more than 100 years ago.  and yet,  it reflects our current culture issues perfectly.  we are prostituted out to our material lifestyle.  Our children know not the concept of delayed gratification, only that of being and having what they want, when they want.

Our drive forward to a better life has completely obliterated the very thing it was trying to achieve.  We now work so hard that we don't have anything left.  We have better cars, bigger houses, more plentiful food, and yet, overall health is failing, families are falling apart, and nobody is willing to stand up and just be a good person.  To help is to open one's self up to the liability suits of those too petty to simply say "Thank-you; I know I am still hospitalized, but I realize you did your best for me, without hope of reward, so thanks."  Instead they turn it around, and go on a spree, spreading hurt and accusations, liability and guilt, blaming everyone instead of taking personal responsability for their actions and behaviour.

Ok, I'll hop down from the soapbox now.  Gotta get home and spend some time with the family that is trying so hard to get away from me.

Andre.