404. London, MDCCCII

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look

  For comfort, being, as I am, opprest

  To think that now our life is only drest

  For show; mean handi-work of craftsman, cook,

  Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brook

  In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;

  The wealthiest man among us is the best:

  No grandeur now in nature or in book

  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 cause

  Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

  And pure religion breathing household laws.