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!



This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;



The winds that will be howling at all hours,



And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;



For this, for everything, we are out of tune;



It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be



A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;



So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,



Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;



Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;



Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.





