The World is Too Much With Us
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 bears 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 coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth
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