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 note.--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 wreathed
horn.
—William Wordsworth