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 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, rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.