If a man can say of his life or br any moment of his life, There is br nothing more to be desired! his state br becomes like that told in the famous br double sonnet--but without the br sonnet’s restrictions. Let him go look br at the river flowing or the bank br of late flowers, there will be one br small fly still among the petals br in whose gauzy wings raised above br its back a rainbow shines. The world br to him is radiant and even the fact br of poverty is wholly without despair. br br So it seems until these rouse br to him pictures of the systematically br starved--for a purpose, at the mind’s br proposal. What good then the br light winged fly, the flower or br the river--too foul to drink of or br even to bathe in? The 90 story building br beyond the ocean that a rocket br will span for destruction in a matter br of minutes but will not br bring him, in a century, food or br relief of any sort from his suffering. br br The world too much with us? Rot! br the world is not half enough with us-- br the rot of a potato with br a healthy skin, a rot that is br never revealed till we are about to br eat--and it revolts us. Beauty? br Beauty should make us paupers, br should blind us, rob us--for it br does not feed the sufferer but makes br his suffering a fly-blown putrescence br and ourselves decay--unless br the ecstasy be general.