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-gather'd 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.