Written in London September 1802
O Friend!
I know not which way I must
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! — We must run glittering like a
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in
Delights us.
Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and parade of our own country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the Revolution had produced in France.
This must be borne in mind, or else the reader may think that in this and the succeeding sonnets I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered among us by undisturbed wealth" (W.
W., in 1843).
O Friend!:
Coleridge.
William Wordsworth
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