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!
The sea that bears her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are upgathered 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 wreathed horn.
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