- 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 every thing, 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 coming from the sea;
- Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.