The World
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 hoursAnd are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,—For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather beA 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 wreathed horn.