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 wreathèd horn.
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