THE world is too much with us; late and soon, <br /> Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: <br /> Little we see in Nature that is ours; <br />We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! <br />This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; <br /> The winds that will be howling at all hours, <br /> And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; <br />For this, for everything, we are out of tune; <br />It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be <br /> A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; <br />So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, <br /> Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; <br />Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; <br /> Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-world-2/
