The world will be ending soon, the headlines say,
is too much or too far already gone; it’s all up
with us; late we have arrived to the clean up
and soon, there will be little chance of cooling.
Getting and spending is still our Achilles heel;
we lay waste to our only home, desperately grip
our powers;–hope that it can’t be as bad as that.
Little we see how it is, actually, as bad as that,
in Nature–that is–which, indifferent, nevertheless
is ours; the only chance we have lies in what
We have given up, or, if we are willing to give
our hearts away to our children and theirs;
otherwise, all of it, nothing but a sordid boon!
Note: this poem was not a fun one to write. Nor does it add anything to what Wordsworth has already said, 220 years ago, in “The World Is Too Much With Us.” It was, however, a challenging exercise. Thanks, napowrimo for the suggestion. But damn, it’s one line short of a sonnet! I’m gonna call it one, anyway, because I can.