The World is Too Much with Us
Wordsworth, William (1770-1850)

   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 wreathŹd horn.
       


Immortal Poems of the English Language (Williams)