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 wreathe'd horn.
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