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.
- William Wordsworth