City and Everyday Life

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!

Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will! Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty.

The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave old England’s winding sheet.

But most through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot’s curse Blasts the newborn infant’s tear And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

In every cry of every man, In every infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, “The same as everywhere!”

’Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.

God made the country, and man made the town.

The watchdog’s voice that bay’d the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 6

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat’ry glade.

As with my hat 7 upon my head I walk’d along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand. 8

God the first garden made, and the first city.

Well then; I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne’er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy, And they (methinks) deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.

Pandemonium, city and proud seat Of Lucifer.

As one who long in populous city pent.

When night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

Tower’d cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

What is the city but the people?

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?

Night and silence! who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear.