The World Is To 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 up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

　　For this, for everything, we are out of tune,

　　It moves us not.--at 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.