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 bares 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 wreathèd horn


William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)