The world is too much with us; late and soon, br Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: br Little we see in Nature that is ours; br We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! br This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; br The winds that will be howling at all hours, br And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; br For this, for everything, we are out of tune; br It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be br A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; br So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, br Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn br Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; br Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.