| 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 wreathèd
horn.
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